


Where Dreams Take You

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Fellowship of the Ring, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - Tear-jerker, War of the Ring, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2002-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Seek for the Sword that was broken:_  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

He pulled his mount to a halt in the shade of an ancient, gnarled holly tree and swung himself stiffly from the saddle. Animal and man both showed the strain of the long journey. They moved as ones who had not eaten or rested since the first light of dawn, who had clambered through the barren hills until their feet ached and their hearts grew heavy. Now, as the sun slipped into the grey shadows of the West, they had reached the end of their strength and of their road for the day.

He allowed himself a moment, as his booted feet struck the iron-hard ground, to pause and feel the aches in his body. A wry, self-mocking smile tilted his lips. He had thought himself ready for this task. He had believed himself hardened beyond the reach of simple weariness. But the very stones of this place seemed to breathe despair and exhaustion. It ate away at his strength and clouded his mind, 'til he longed only to turn his back on this cursed wilderness and return to the fair halls of his home.

Home. As he did every night, he let his thoughts dwell on home while he unsaddled his horse and prepared his camp. It lightened his heart, and it held the night shadows at bay for a brief time. But home was league upon league behind him, and the shadows drew ever nearer. It was into those shadows he was bound, to search until he found the answers he sought, or until he dropped in his tracks - which at the moment seemed by far the more likely of the two.

With the horse tended and his own sparse meal eaten, he wrapped himself in his dusty, black cloak, propped his chin on his bent knees, and sat staring into the banked embers of the fire. His face, beneath the dirt and half-grown beard, was somber. His eyes were distant, looking back at something lost behind him in the night that gave him no comfort. He was thinking of his home again, of his leave-taking and the bitter words that had spurred him from his father's gates.

Anger still burned in his face and soured his throat, when he thought of that day. They had both wounded him, in their different ways. His father - cold and scornful, full of accusations against his pride and selfishness, trying to conceal the fear behind them. His brother - grave and generous in defeat, his forgiveness as cruel as their father's rage. Neither of them understanding why he had defied father, brother and council to take this quest upon himself.

'So be it,' he thought, as he gazed sightlessly into the fire. 'I can bear their contempt awhile. And when I have solved the riddle and returned home, there will be time enough to set things right.'

He devoutly hoped that this was true, even though his secret doubt whispered to him that the riddle had no answer and his steps would never lead him home again. This was why he had insisted on going, to spare the brother he loved from a fruitless search and lonely death. If one of them had to travel that road, he wanted it be himself, who stood the best chance of success. And if one of them had to stay behind to support their father in the coming crisis, he wanted it to be his brother, who deserved a chance to earn that father's love and respect. They could accuse him of ambition and overweening pride, but all he wanted was for his people, his city and his family to endure. For that, he would accept any burden.

That thought did not warm him, when the night wind blew through his cloak and chilled his limbs, but it gave him a measure of peace. He was not a philosophical man, nor a fatalistic one, but he knew better than to curse what he could not mend, and he knew that he had taken this burden on himself. It was entirely his choice - from the cold stones beneath his back as he slept, to the bitterness of his father's farewell - he had set himself on this path. The only choice left him was to follow it to the end.

Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, he lay down with his head on the smooth, slightly warm leather of his saddle. Behind him, the horse chewed thoughtfully on the leaves of the holly tree. In front of him, the fire glowed a dull red, heat crawling over the charred wood like a living thing. Above him, the heavens were lit with a blaze of stars that sang too high and sweet for human ears to hear.

Boromir, son of Denethor, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor and Captain-General of the armies of Minas Tirith, closed his eyes and slept.


	2. The Cost of a Night's Lodging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

Boromir guided his horse beneath the swinging sign and into the inn yard. The animal plodded up to the door, his proud head drooping low, then came to a grateful stop. Boromir patted his neck and leaned forward to murmur, "Here's the warm stable I promised you, Ayreth. Pay no attention to the smell."

Ayreth lifted his head and twitched an ear at his rider. They had ridden long together, this princely man and kingly steed. From the fields of Rohan, through Dunland and Tharbad, along the Old South Road, through the ruined city and across the Greyflood they had come, and in that time had reached an understanding. If Boromir of Gondor required him to sleep in a noisome byre such as this, then Ayreth of Rohan would condescend to do so. Such was the loyalty he owed his rider.

Boromir swung down from the saddle and moved to Ayreth's head. The horse nudged him affectionately, and Boromir absently stroked the animal's velvet nose as he gazed around the inn yard. It was a humble place, with ramshackle stables on one side and what, from the sounds and odors emanating from it, seemed to be a combined pigsty and compost heap on the other. The house itself was large and solid, with a lamp burning above the stout wooden door and yet more lights glimmering from behind many shuttered windows. The yard needed sweeping and the roof needed patching, but it was a mild night, and Boromir was not concerned with leaks.

"Ho! Innkeeper!" he shouted, pounding on the door with his fist.

After a moment, the door creaked open. A short, broad man in a greasy leather apron stared up at Boromir, no welcome in his face. Shrewd eyes, narrowed in suspicion, took in his full appearance and dwelt uncomfortably on the sword hilt glinting beneath his cloak.

"Are you the innkeeper?" Boromir demanded.

"Aye."

"I need lodging for myself and my horse."

"I'll see your coin, first, traveler."

Boromir glared down at the other man, struggling to control his temper. He was not accustomed to being treated like a thief by the likes of this landlord, no matter how ragged his cloak or dusty his boots. Unconsciously, his hand moved to his sword hilt, as he drew himself up to his full, commanding height. The inn keeper visibly shrank under his cold, green gaze.

With a contemptuous snort, Boromir pushed past the him into the entryway. "Only after I see the state of your sheets."

His haughtiness seemed to reassure the inn keeper. Bowing and rubbing his thick hands together, the landlord began to talk in a quick, grating whine. "Indeed, sir, indeed. No offence meant, I'm sure. It's a strange lot we get coming up the Greenway in these times, and a man can't be too careful. Took you for one of them Rangers, I did. Queer folk and none too open with their purses, if you take my meaning..."

"I'll also need supper," Boromir said, cutting off his flow of excuses, "and fodder for my horse. Do you have someone I can trust to groom him properly?"

The landlord hesitated, still plainly laboring under a strong suspicion that his new guest did not have the money to command such services, but afraid to say so. Boromir relented and tossed him a silver coin. The landlord bowed again, this time with real enthusiasm.

"My son will see to him at once. A fair hand with horses, he is. Supper in the common room, sir, and I'll have a room prepared. If you please, sir..." Another bow, and he waved a hand toward the doorway on Boromir's right.

Boromir ducked through the low opening and found himself in a dim, crowded, fire-lit room, full smoke and the hum of voices. He could see few details, through the thick air, but he could smell bread and meat cooking. His stomach promptly growled. At the landlord's urging, he crossed to the trestle table that dominated the center of the room and pulled up a stool. The landlord bustled away to bring his supper, and Boromir studied his fellow guests curiously.

A pair of dwarves were hunched over the fire, their heads together in private conversation. Several farmers lounged on benches around the walls, smoking, sipping ale from wooden tankards, and chatting in a desultory fashion. A much louder group of men occupied the other end of the table. Boromir counted six of them - large men in rough woolens and leathers of dark shades - all banging their dishes about and shouting for faster service. One had a gnarled walking stick propped by his seat, the head a polished knob thick enough to crack a man's skull. All of them were armed. In the corner behind the fireplace sat a lone figure, cloaked in shadow. Boromir caught a glimpse of long hair framing a calm, stern face and hooded eyes returning his gaze, but the arrival of his meal distracted him, and he turned away from the silent watcher.

The food was tasty and hot, much better than he would have expected in such surroundings. He ate quickly, all his attention on his meal. When the landlord thumped a tankard down beside his plate, he barely acknowledged it with a nod. He had forgotten, in his seemingly endless travels, how good meat could taste when you didn't have to kill and clean it first, or pick gravel and twigs out of your plate.

Finally, Boromir pushed back his trencher and waved the landlord over. He looked at the greasy, grinning man with something close to approval, a full stomach having mellowed him considerably.

"That was excellent. Now, is there hot water enough for a bath in this place?"

"Of course, sir. If you'll follow me, sir."

Half an hour later, Boromir emerged from the bathing chamber in the cellar, clean and groomed, with the worst of the dust brushed from his clothes, feeling positively benevolent. He crossed the entry hall to the common room and stepped inside once more. The crowd had thickened in his absence, mostly local men, by their dress and manner. Boromir approached the bar, where a plump, middle-aged woman of plain but kindly countenance held sway.

She looked him over, eyes twinkling, and asked, "What can I pour for you, young sir?"

"Whatever you have in that keg," he replied.

Dimples showed in her round cheeks. "My best home-brewed. I don't broach that cask for just anyone, but seeing as you have such a handsome face, I might be persuaded."

Boromir eyed her skeptically for a moment, taken aback, then broke out in a reluctant smile. Pulling another coin from his belt, he dropped it into the woman's hand. "Is that persuasion enough?"

She sighed mournfully. "He hands me cold metal and calls it persuasion!"

Still pouting, she flounced over to the keg to fill his tankard. Boromir watched her for a moment, then let his eyes travel around the room. He noticed the group of ruffians at the table shooting him appraising glances and muttering among themselves. With a casual gesture, he thrust his cloak back off his shoulder and turned to let the firelight catch the length of the sword that hung at his belt. Sword and silver-mounted horn glowed redly in warning.

The voices from the table dropped to an inaudible murmur, and Boromir let his cloak fall closed again. He had no fear of rabble such as this, but the reminder of what perils he might face on his road undermined his good humor. His smile had turned to an expression of cool reserve when he accepted his tankard from the woman and stepped away from the bar.

He intended to find a seat near the fire and study the room at his leisure, but he found his way barred by the grim-faced stranger who had watched him from the shadows. The man loomed up before him, taller even than Boromir himself and made larger by the loose folds of the cloak swathed about his frame. He gazed down at Boromir, dark eyes glinting beneath their heavy lids, and smiled.

"Drink with me, man of the South," he said.

Boromir barely controlled his start of surprise. It took him an effort to meet the stranger's slightly taunting gaze without showing his own discomfort. Though he had not chosen to travel in disguise - Boromir, son of Denethor, disdained to skulk and hide behind lies and shadows - he had not expected to be recognized so easily, outside the borders of his own lands. And he had caught a note of condescension in the stranger's voice that he did not like.

Lifting his chin to meet the other man's gaze more directly, he answered coldly, "I prefer to drink alone."

"No man prefers to drink alone." There was no mistaking the amused condescension now, and Boromir ground his teeth together in annoyance. "Come. I am weary of my own company."

That had been a command - a softly spoken one, but still a command. Anger flared in Boromir, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. He was on the point of giving this stranger a sharp lesson in courtesy, when he suddenly remembered the purpose of his being here. He needed information. And what better source of information than a man who seemed to know more than he ought?

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come. Boromir took his hand from his sword and gave a rueful laugh. "I, too, am weary of my own company, but I am not accustomed to taking orders from haughty strangers."

"Or from anyone, I deem." The man smiled again, with real humor, and gestured for Boromir to precede him back to his private corner beside the fire. "I would warn you not to reach for your blade so readily, but as I wish to have a comfortable chat by the fire, not a contest of arms, I will keep that advice to myself."

Boromir sat down on a wooden bench, with his back to the wall, and propped his booted feet on the hearth. The stranger resumed his seat in the darkest corner.

"You may give any advice you like," Boromir said, easily. "Whether I heed it or not is my own affair."

The man sipped his beer, his eyes gleaming at Boromir over the rim of the tankard. "Do you ever heed the counsel of others, I wonder?"

"No." At the man's arrested look, Boromir chuckled. "Not according to my brother, who is over-full of wisdom and over-fond of sharing it. But as it happens, you have found me in a mellow mood. I came to these lands in search of counsel."

"I wondered what could bring a soldier of Gondor up the Greenway in such dark times."

Again, Boromir felt a flare of anger and disquiet. How had the stranger known from whence he came? He shot the man a darkling look from beneath his brows and saw the taunting smile again. "Who are you, and how do you know I come from Gondor?"

"My name is my own," the man answered flatly, "and I am a Ranger of the North. I know many things hidden from lesser men." Boromir gave a snort of disgust, and the man's rigid mien softened into laughter. He pointed to the gauntlets Boromir wore on his forearms, which bore the device of a great, flowering tree tooled into the leather. "You wear the White Tree of Minas Tirith, and you carry yourself like a soldier. A captain of men."

Boromir relaxed, but his smile did not return. "And you carry yourself like more than a wanderer from the North."

"I am a Ranger," the man repeated. "We are what we are. It is not for you to know or to question."

To his own surprise, Boromir felt no resentment of his words. He merely gazed at the Ranger, wondering what manner of man he was beneath that stained cloak and grave face. A man used to his own kind of command, clearly. A man to be treated with caution and, perhaps, respect.

"Do you have a name, Soldier of Gondor?" the Ranger asked.

"Boromir." If the man recognized the name of Denethor's heir, he gave no sign.

"What counsel do you seek in these lands, Boromir?"

"I have been sent to find a place called Imladris, home of Elrond Half-Elven. None in the southern realms now remember the secrets of Imladris, if ever we knew them, and we know only that it lies to the north, hidden from the eyes of men. I traveled north through the empty lands, but I found no signs to lead me to Imladris, so I turned aside, into the West and the haunts of men, to seek counsel from those who still remember."

The Ranger regarded him in silence for a moment, then asked, "What business have you with Elrond?"

"My business is my own," Boromir answered, in soft mockery of the Ranger's own words.

"Then I cannot guide you to Imladris."

"You know where it lies?"

The Ranger nodded. "I have walked the woods of that dale many times, and listened to the music of the elves. It is a place of beauty and power beyond your understanding, Boromir of Gondor."

"Whether I understand it or no, I must go there," Boromir said, harshly. "If you cannot tell me where it lies, then I will find it on my own."

"I can tell you, but that does not mean that you will find it."

"I will search, 'til my last breath, and die with the name of Imladris on my lips."

The hooded eyes gleamed at him afresh, while the Ranger's pale face grew thoughtful. "I see no guile in you, and no evil beyond the given lot of men. But there is much that will hinder you on your quest - grief and despair, a lack of belief in the very thing you seek. You have a dark road ahead of you."

"I am not afraid of darkness."

A faint flash of the old condescension, then the Ranger bowed his head in acceptance. "The place you seek is to the north and east of here, at the feet of the Misty Mountains. There are roads that will take you there, but they are perilous. Were I to attempt this journey, I would strike north, leaving the Greenway, and follow the river Hoarwell until I had passed the southern downs. They are evil. Do not enter them. Then I would make for the East Road and follow it across the Hoarwell and Loudwater. The realm you seek lies at the end of that road. It's common name is Rivendell."

Boromir sat in silence, pondering the Ranger's words. Finally, he lifted his gaze to the other man's face and said, "Thank you, Ranger of the North. I am in your debt."

The Ranger shrugged. "Why speak of debt, when we fight the same enemy? I do not know your errand, soldier of Gondor, but I sense its urgency. I only hope you will come to Elrond, in the end, though my heart misgives me."

"I will. Is there no name I can give to Elrond, when I tell him of the man who led me to him?"

"None. But if you are truly fortunate, you will find my captain there. Strider, he is called. Tell him that his brother-in-arms sends all duty and affection."

Boromir rose before dawn, paid his shot at the inn, saddled Ayreth, and was cantering along the Greenway by the time the sun had risen. He had much to think about and much to cause him disquiet. In the sane light of day, he was apt to view the Ranger's words with less credulity. Indeed, what could a nameless wanderer know of his inner doubts or the perils he faced? And yet, he had known the very thing that Boromir sought - the path to Imladris. To Rivendell.

Should he not take the Ranger's advice and strike north from the road? Boromir scanned the terrain to the north, wondering what lay beyond those gentle hills. Why did the Ranger warn him so particularly about the darkness waiting for him? Was it not the same for any man who braved the unknown? What could he, Boromir, possibly carry within his heart that could endanger his quest? It was folly. Presumptuous folly.

The road meandered down into a shallow cutting, with earthen walls rising to either side. Boromir rode forward, his gaze automatically scanning the top of the walls for signs of trouble, but his mind was elsewhere. Ayreth picked up his pace slightly.

A muffled thump sounded behind them. Boromir jerked on the reins, and Ayreth shied nervously. Boromir's sword was half drawn, and he was twisting in the saddle to look behind him, when something struck him a vicious blow in the back of the head. He was briefly aware of voices and of Ayreth rearing up, neighing in anger, then he tumbled from the saddle and slid into blackness.  



	3. The Shadow of the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

He awoke to darkness and a fierce, insistent pain in his head. Heavy feet stumped and stamped around him, while harsh voices called to each other, sounding oddly muffled to his ears. A horse - Ayreth, he was sure - screamed in fury and brought its hooves ringing down on the roadway. Boromir only just swallowed a groan, as the sound sliced through his battered head. He felt as though his skull had been crushed to jelly, and every noise, every vibration in the packed dirt of the road, was an agony.

The men - there were several of them, to judge by their voices - were struggling to restrain an enraged Ayreth and had apparently forgotten all about Boromir. He still lay where he had fallen, with his sword pinned beneath his body and a fold of his cloak over his head. The proud warrior in him wanted to leap to his feet, draw his sword, and cut a bloody swathe through the unsuspecting thieves. The wounded man, alone in a strange place with no one to fight at his side, wanted to close his eyes and slip back into unconsciousness. But it was the wily veteran in him who won the day - the strategist who took what advantages were given him and parlayed them into victory. So he neither moved nor spoke, gave no sign that he even lived, and waited for his attackers to give him a clear opening.

They succeeded in calming Ayreth, by sheer force of numbers, and began to strip him of his baggage. Boromir concentrated on counting the number of voices and placing each of them, in preparation for an attack. Then he heard one voice rise above the rest, calling,

"Search the body, Aglun! Get his purse!"

Aglun gave a short, ugly laugh. "And get that sword of his in my gullet? Nay, I'll not touch that one."

The first voice grumbled something Boromir could not hear, then heavy, booted feet approached him. "He's dead, ye fool. I stove his head in meself."

Another voice chimed in, "That's what ye said about the dwarf, Gerd, and remember how _that_ ended!"

"Huh. Dwarves' heads are made of rocks. This one went down like wheat before a scythe. He's dead, I tell ye." Boromir felt something prod him in the ribs. "Naught but carrion."

"Leave him for the crows, then," Aglund grumbled.

"And let that fat purse go begging? Ye're fools and cowards, the lot of ye." A thick hand closed around Boromir's arm and made to heave him onto his back. Boromir rolled over, seeming to move in obedience to Gerd's grip on his arm, but in truth freeing his sword and brushing the cloak away from his eyes.

"Come on, then, ye great lump o' crow's food. Let's have that..."

Gerd's sentence trailed off in an odd gurgle, as Boromir spitted him on the end of his sword. While the other thieves stood gawking at him, too terrified to move, he leapt to his feet and kicked the body from his blade. Then he whirled on them, his bloody sword coming up to strike. But he had bargained without his own injuries. As he turned, Boromir stumbled and nearly fell. His limbs went nerveless and his eyes dim, as a churning sickness rose in him. He staggered to one side, fighting for balance, and caught his foot on a heavy walking stick that lay in the road. Pain sliced through his body, as he landed hard on his knees, the tip of his sword gouging into the dirt.

A harsh cry of triumph reached him and recalled him to a sense of urgency. He lifted his head to see two shadowy figures darting toward him, sunlight reflecting off the blades in their hands. The soldier in him rose to the challenge. His sword came up in a deft thrust, and a second body lay twitching in the dust before him. Another slash, and the other man dropped his dagger, howling in agony, and scuttled away.

Boromir staggered to his feet again and advanced purposefully on what remained of his assailants. The thieves broke and fled before him. Their courage, while ample for the task of waylaying and robbing a lone traveler, would not sustain them in the face of a fully-armed soldier of Gondor. One of them tried to grab Ayreth's full saddlebag as he retreated, but Boromir nicked him with the tip of his sword, encouraging him to drop his booty and take to his heels to save his skin. A moment later, Boromir stood alone in the middle of the road, the unquestioned victor of the field.

He let the point of his sword drop and leaned heavily on the hilt. His eyes closed in weariness, and he sank down to sit in the road, both hands still gripping the sword hilt and his forehead pressed to the cold metal. He did not move until he heard Ayreth's hooves plodding up to him and felt the horse nuzzle the back of his neck.

Lifting his head, very carefully, he smiled up at the horse and patted his nose. "Not quite crow's food, yet, my friend. It seems I have something in common with the dwarves."

Ayreth tossed his head, and Boromir saw a smear of gleaming, wet redness on the animal's nose. He frowned and started to climb to his feet. Had the thieves dared to harm Ayreth? Then he realized that the blood on Ayreth's muzzle was not Ayreth's own. Sinking back down to the roadway, Boromir pulled off his glove and reached to touch the back of his own head. His fingers came away a brilliant crimson.

With a grimace of distaste, he wiped his hand on the clothing of the corpse beside him, then pulled on his glove again. Gerd lay on his back, his glassy eyes staring at the brilliant, blue sky above them and a look of eternal amazement frozen on his face. Boromir studied his features curiously, then the rough homespun clothing he wore, with the uneasy feeling that he knew this man. It was not until he glanced at the walking stick lying beside Gerd - the one that had tripped him during the skirmish - that he remembered. He had seen that same walking stick, with its head polished smooth from the breaking of many skulls, propped against the table at the inn.

A mirthless smile touched his lips. "My brother would be pleased," Boromir informed the corpse. "He told me my pride would be my downfall, and see how close I came to making him right, yet again. If I had treated your threat as real, back at the inn..." Abruptly, he shrugged, as if throwing off an unseen burden. "No matter. It's merely a headache."

Boromir climbed to his feet, disdaining the support of either his sword of Gerd's discarded staff, but as he straightened his back, the sickness hit him again. A black mist swam before his eyes, his gorge rose, and he staggered drunkenly. Grabbing a handful of Ayreth's mane for balance, he looped both arms around the horse's neck and buried his face in the smooth hide. Ayreth nickered softly, and Boromir gave a choked laugh, muffled in the horse's neck.

"I think we won't go any farther today."

When he could stand without swaying, Boromir released his hold on Ayreth and took a few cautious steps toward the place where his looted baggage lay. Ayreth followed, and he stood patiently, while Boromir lifted each scattered piece of gear, slung it over the saddle, and secured it. The man worked slowly, pausing to quell the sickness that rose after each movement and resting often against the horse's flank. Finally, he had retrieved everything of value. Only the two bodies still lay in the road.

Boromir caught Ayreth's dangling reins and looped them round his hand. With slow, dogged steps, he led the horse along the road to the end of the cutting, where only a low embankment separated the road from the wooded fields beyond. The horse leapt the embankment first, then waited, stolidly, while Boromir scrambled after him, using the reins like a rope to scale the barrier.

A deep lassitude gripped Boromir, draining the strength and purpose from his limbs. He wanted only to lie down on this very spot, roll up in his cloak, and sleep. But the pounding in his head had not entirely driven out good sense, and he knew that it might well mean his death to lie exposed, helpless and unknowing on the verge of the road. Driven by a soldier's reflexes, rather than by his own will, he started across the field toward the nearest clump of trees.

A few minutes' walking brought him to the small wood. He threaded his way among the trees until their branches hid the road from view, then he halted in the shade of a gnarled oak. It was a peaceful place, dappled with cool shadows and warm, morning sunshine, carpeted with Autumn leaves. Boromir did not bother to tether Ayreth. He merely tugged the saddle, with all its burdens attached, from the horse's back, removed the bridle, and recommended that his friend go find something to fill his empty belly. For himself, he wanted nothing but a drink from the water skin he carried and a saddle bag beneath his head to cushion it. Sleep came quickly, and with it, relief from pain and doubt.

It was Ayreth's snort of alarm that woke him. Boromir's eyes snapped open, and he tried to thrust himself away from the ground, to stand upright, but his body would not obey. He succeeded only in re-igniting the pain in his skull and causing the moonlit branches before his eyes to swim sickeningly out of focus. It was deep night. He must have slept through the entire day. He did not know what had disturbed his rest, but his racing pulse told him that, whatever it was, it meant danger.

Ayreth shied and pawed the ground, his eyes showing white with fear in the darkness. Boromir reached for his sword, and though he doubted he had the strength to wield it, the weight of it in his hand steadied him. And then he heard it - the quiet clop of a horse's hooves on the soft earth.

Urgency lent him strength, and he staggered to his feet to confront this new threat. Behind him, Ayreth neighed fiercely. The horse's panic fed his own, though he did not know why this night traveler filled him with such dread. He could hear the other horse approaching through the trees, its bit jingling and its breath snorting.

He was about to call a challenge to the rider, when a sudden wave of cold hit him with such force that he staggered under it. Ayreth screamed in terror, rearing up, his hooves flailing above Boromir's head. Then his forefeet came back to earth with a jarring thud, and he took off running at full speed, into the night.

"Ayreth!" Boromir shouted helplessly. "Stop!"

But the horse did not hear or did not obey. He was gone, and Boromir was alone with the mysterious rider and the hideous cold that gripped him, cutting to the bone, numbing his limbs until his body no longer seemed his own. He resolutely turned to face the approaching hoof beats, setting his face in proud, dauntless lines to conceal the fear in his heart, and waited.

The rider loomed up before him, silhouetted against the rising moon, its face lost in impenetrable shadow. It was swathed, from head to booted heels, in a black cloak, and the hands that gripped the reins were gloved in black leather. It carried no visible weapon, spoke no word, offered no threat, yet dread flowed from it in a chill current, eddying around the man who confronted it, catching at his limbs, dragging him to his doom.

Boromir tore his eyes away from the black hood and the faceless void beneath it, struggling to reclaim his will, to lift his heart and his sword above the deadly current. He did manage to raise the sword, but the brave challenge he meant to utter died undelivered. The creature on the horse pinned him with its unseen gaze, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. The horse took a step closer to him. Boromir dropped to his knees, his sword still raised as though to shield his face, and in the madness of his fear, he could have sworn he heard a sniffing sound from beneath the rider's hood.

The chill gripped him more tightly still, and his hands began to shake. His sword fell to the ground with a muffled thump, and in the space of a breath, Boromir followed it, his body slumping forward to lie huddled at the feet of the terrible shadow. The rider swung down from the saddle and stooped over him.

In some corner of his mind, where the light still touched him, Boromir knew that he ought to strike one last blow for himself and his people - that he ought to drive his sword into the shadow above him and send it back to the greater Shadow in the East. But despair lay upon him in a great, weighted shroud, and he could not raise his arm to strike. Despair and defeat, for the Enemy had found him.

The sniffing sound came again, then a soft hiss. The rider straightened and turned, swiftly, to remount its horse. As it moved away, its cold shadow no longer falling across his body, Boromir felt some semblance of life return to him. He stirred, fumbling for his sword, and pushed himself up on one arm to watch the rider fade away among the trees.

The natural coolness of the Autumn night returned, along with the rustling of leaves in the wind, but no beast or bird moved in the wake of the rider's coming. Boromir strained to catch the sound of hoof beats, either Ayreth's or the black rider's, but he heard nothing. Closing his eyes, he fell back on the ground and flung one arm over his face to shield himself from the watching night.

In his lifetime of struggle against the Shadow, Boromir had fought many battles on the borders of the Black Land. He had walked the sylvan paths of Ithilien, even to the brink of Morgul Vale. He had gazed down on the evil flowers, warped by the power of the thing that dwelt there, that blossomed in the grass and seen the white tower glowing with its own eerie light. And he had felt the echo of a dreadful chill touch him - the same chill that gripped him even now.

He knew this rider. He had tasted its evil before, if only from a distance. This was the power that lurked in Minas Morgul, the terror that the Enemy held in reserve, ready to unleash on Gondor and the West, when his own power was ripe. And now that time was come, for the terror of Minas Morgul stalked the quiet woods of this land, unleashed by its master to the downfall of the West.

Boromir did not know how the Enemy had found him, or why, and in his black despair, he cared not. The end was upon them. His quest had failed. Gondor would fall before the might of Mordor, and all he had fought so hard to defend would pass into darkness. All was lost.

Alone in the woods, where only the stars of the Elves could see him, he wept long and bitterly. But when he had no tears left in him, Boromir pushed himself wearily to his feet, collected what little of his gear he could carry on foot, and struck off north through the woods. He had no heart for his quest and no hope, but he had made a vow to find Imladris and the answer to his riddle, and that vow was binding, even in the face of defeat.


	4. The Deadliest Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

The days that followed passed in darkness for Boromir. He walked through a warm and golden landscape, bathed in the gentle glow of Autumn, but he saw none of it. His eyes dwelt sightlessly on the ground beneath his feet, while his mind strayed in shadows.

As the pain in his head and the sickness that came with it eased, he slowly began to take notice of his surroundings. He trapped game for fresh meat, lit an occasional fire for comfort, and forced himself to rest when his body ached with fatigue. These brief halts were a kind of torment for him - silence, loneliness, not even the rhythm of his strides to dull his mind. The shadows seemed to press upon him, smothering what tiny spark of purpose or hope he had fanned to flame within himself, and leaving him coldly empty once again.

Pride carried him forward, where no strength of heart remained. His vow bound him to this road, and his duty held his back straight, his head high. His steps carried him swiftly through hills carpeted with brown grasses, through quiet, green woodlands and secretive valleys. But always, as his way led northward, his thoughts turned longingly toward the south and home.

He felt certain now that he would never see the white walls of Minas Tirith again. He would never climb her curving streets to the citadel or hear her banners snap on the breeze. He would never have the chance to mend the hurts of his leave-taking or find that common ground with Faramir that had eluded him for so long. The words exchanged at the doors of the Tower of Guard would stand forever as their last. A monument to pride and stubbornness.

The heaviness of this thought only served to weigh him down further, and it seemed that Middle-earth herself grew to share his bleak mood. The wind veered to the north and east, bringing the chill of distant moors and mountain passes with it. The sky thickened. The stars no longer greeted him with nightfall, and the moon struggled fitfully to cast its beams through the ever-lowering clouds. By day, the world was grey and silent about him.

In the late morning of a cold and colorless day, Boromir brushed aside the last, brittle leaves of a small wood and stepped out under the sky. Before him, a slope of short, smooth grass fell away to the north and west, into a valley filled with silver mist. Out of the mist another hill rose, like a hump of faded green velvet, and beyond that another, and another. Boromir stood just under the eaves of the wood, gazing raptly at the swelling backs of the downs flowing away to the solid grey of the horizon. And as he watched, the clouds opened, and the rain came down in a gleaming curtain.

A small sigh escaped him, born of mingled amazement and resignation. He had never seen a rainfall of such unsullied perfection, and even eyes such as his, unaccustomed to look for poetry in the dance of color on falling water, saw its somber beauty. But no beauty, however unexpected, would shelter him from the cold, wet reality of a long march in a hard rain.

He did not allow himself time to dwell on the discomforts of the day ahead, but hitched his shield a bit higher on his shoulder, ducked his head under the first warning droplets, and trudged down the slope toward the valley. Within minutes, his leather tabard, embroidered tunic and brocade cloak were sodden and heavy, the shirt beneath his chain mail soaked, and his hair clinging wetly to his forehead and face. The grass became slippery and treacherous with swift runnels of water pouring downhill, and where the water did not flow, it pooled deep enough to rise over the tops of his boots.

When he reached the valley floor, Boromir turned to his right, to the east, and began to circle the first round hill. He did not know why the Ranger had warned him to stay clear of the southern downs, but he did not intend to tempt fate by ignoring that warning. The green hills marched inexorably into the mists on his left, but to the right, he could see that the line of hills faded quickly into the flat scrub land that ran along the river. He had held his course well and come out of the woodlands near the eastern borders of the downs, which meant that he could cut across this edge of them quickly. And with luck, he would not disturb whatever evil haunted those green velvet mounds.

By midday, he had passed into a featureless sea of round hills and rain. He could only hope that he still moved northward, and that he would find the end of the downs by nightfall, but he had nothing to guide him. He briefly considered stopping to eat the few scraps of cold meat and shriveled autumn apples he carried, but the downs offered no shelter, and he was not hungry enough to sit down in the middle of the deluge to eat.

He was skirting the base of yet another hill, when he heard it - a woman's voice, faint and clear, lifted in song. Boromir halted abruptly and raised his head, searching for the source of the sound. He knew a momentary impulse to draw his sword, but some quality in the voice stilled his hand. This was a song of joy and welcome. There was no evil in it.

Drawn by the voice, he moved swiftly around the hill. He reached the other side and paused at the foot of the next mound, caught by the strangeness of the scene.

The singer paced slowly up the slope above him, gliding effortlessly over the streaming grass. Her pale hair hung loose down her back, and her bare arms were lifted to the sky, cupped to catch the silver rain as it fell, 'til her palms seemed to overflow with liquid light. Her gown, which hung from her shoulders to brush the grass behind her, was the color of the rain. A girdle of silver and green clasped her waist. A wreath of water lilies crowned her head.

As Boromir watched, the woman reached the brow of the hill and halted. She threw her head back and lifted her voice in a final, joyful chorus whose words were lost in the rush of water. And on her last, lingering note, the curtain of rain parted before her, letting a pale shaft of sunlight gild her with its fire. The rain stopped. The sun turned the wet grass to a field of green-shot diamonds. The singer lowered her arms and turned to look down at the watching man.

Boromir felt acutely embarrassed to be caught like this, intruding on her solitary song, and the woman's inhuman beauty unnerved him. He stood in dripping, awkward silence, waiting for a sign from her. She studied him calmly for a long moment, then laughed aloud, her clear voice ringing through the newly-washed air.

"Welcome, traveler!" she called, holding out a hand as if to draw him up the hill to her. "What errand brings you to these hills in the midst of the autumn rains? 'Tis a foul day for walking, I fear, but a fair day for singing."

Boromir's awkwardness vanished, and he climbed swiftly in answer to her call. He no longer felt the water sloshing in his boots or the extra weight of his sodden clothing. The lilting warmth of the lady's voice drove all else from his mind. He stepped onto the hilltop and halted a respectful distance from the willowy figure in silver-grey. Then he bowed with all the grace of a trained courtier.

"I beg your pardon, Lady. I did not mean to interrupt your song."

"Do not beg pardon, for any who share the rain with me may share my song as well."

Emboldened by her words, Boromir shot her a measuring look and asked, "What manner of creature are you, Lady? An Elven Princess? Or a sprite sent to tempt travelers to their deaths in the downs?"

She laughed again, like the merry gurgle of a stream over pebbles. "Neither, good sir. I am Goldberry, the River Daughter, and I dwell here with my lord, Tom Bombadil."

"Is he master of these lands?" Boromir asked, wondering if this Bombadil was the danger of which the Ranger had warned him. Perhaps he had stumbled into the realm of some jealous lord.

"He is the Master of wood, water and hill, but he is master of no lands." She sensed his sudden wariness and smiled at him. "All walk freely under the sky, though the Barrow Downs are not to be tread lightly."

Boromir nodded. He had heard tales of the Barrow Downs, as far south as Anorien and Minas Tirith. They had an evil reputation, even among soldiers who scorned to go in fear of superstitions or shadows. If these downs were the same, then the Ranger and Goldberry spoke wisely, and he would do well to heed their warnings.

"I do not intend to tread them at all," he said. "My road leads north, not west."

"Then you will walk in hard lands."

"It will not be the first time."

She tilted her head to one side, studying him with piercing eyes. "Yet you are afraid."

"Not of the road ahead, Lady," he heard himself saying, though he could not remember giving his tongue leave to speak, "but of the darkness that comes too swiftly behind me."

Goldberry stepped up close to him, the smile gone from her face. Laying one slim, pale hand on his breast, she gazed straight into his eyes.

"You carry a shadow on your heart," she murmured. "A cold breath of evil."

Even as she said the words, it seemed to Boromir as if a dark veil were suddenly lifted from his eyes, and a great weight fell from his shoulders. The shadows, so long his only companion through the endless days, fled before the warmth of Goldberry's touch. He blinked, dazed and nearly blinded by the brightness of the very air around him. Then she laughed, and the sound was as welcome as sunlight on chilled flesh.

Flinging her hair over her shoulder, she danced away from him, toward the northern lip of the hill, and called, "Let us not fear shadows in the clean light of day! Come, traveler, I will walk with you awhile!"

Boromir followed, slightly dazed and not at all certain what had just happened, but glad for the company of the River Daughter as long as she would give it. Her steps were light and quick, her bare feet making no dent in the short grass, but Boromir found that he could keep pace with her easily. Whatever magic she had worked on him, she had banished his weariness along with his despair, and he moved with a swift energy that matched her dancing grace.

As they walked, they spoke of his quest and the road that lay ahead. Boromir felt no desire to hide his purpose or his origins from the lady, so he talked freely of things he had shared with no one but his brother, 'til now. Goldberry could tell him little of the lands to the north, but she cautioned him that no track or path would take him through the wilds beyond the Weather Hills. The creatures that stalked the feet of the Misty Mountains did not make paths. They moved by stealth and hunted in darkness, and all living things were their prey. His only hope of finding Rivendell was to find the Road, but even the Road could be perilous, if approached without caution.

Somehow, even these dire warnings could not daunt Boromir, with Goldberry at his side. The vigor of hope had returned to him. He felt again the sense of purpose and the stern resolve that had first set his feet on the long road from Gondor, and only the faintest wisps of darkness still clung to the back of his mind, like the images of a half-forgotten dream.

Near sunset, they reached the northern edge of the downs. Goldberry walked with Boromir to the crest of the last hill and stood beside him, watching the night shadows lengthen across a flat and featureless land. Behind them, they heard the clop of hooves, and Boromir turned to see a large, fat, sleek pony trotting up the hill. The beast had bags slung over his back, and he approached Goldberry like an old and trusted friend.

"Fatty Lumpkin!" she called in delight, as the pony sidled up to her. "Tom has not forgotten us, I see!"

From the bags, she took bread, fruit, cheese and wine. She gestured for Boromir to join her, then sat on the smooth turf and ate heartily of the simple fair. Boromir ate what she offered, but his eyes strayed often to the cold ridge of hills barely visible to the north, and his face grew increasingly drawn and grim.

He knew that this meal was Goldberry's farewell. She had lightened his heart for awhile, guided him through the downs, and given him what counsel she could. Now they must take separate paths. Boromir was no longer afraid of what lay ahead, but he felt a lingering disquiet. The shadows had not gone, only fled into the deepest recesses of his mind, where cold and loneliness and failure could feed them, could nurse them back to strength again.

When they had supped, Goldberry rose to her feet and clapped to bring the pony cantering up to her. She took the remaining provisions from the animal's bags and gave them to Boromir, with an airy laugh at his thanks. Then she held out a hand to him and smiled, when he bowed over it.

"I must bid you farewell and safe journey."

"Thank you, Lady." The smile had left his face, and the eyes he lifted to hers were somber. "My journey has been the brighter for your fair company. I will remember it, no matter what darkness overtakes me."

"Nay. Turn not your eyes behind, to the coming darkness, but ahead to the promise of hope and victory."

"And if there is no such hope?"

"There is always hope."

Stepping close to him, she plucked a flower from the crown on her hair, and slipped its stem through the metal clasp of his cloak. Boromir felt again the strange lightening of his spirit that came with her touch, and as she dropped her hands, he reached to touch the bloom with his own.

"The quest has not failed, so long as you live to see the sunrise," she said.

He bowed wordlessly, then turned away to retrieve his shield and gear. Goldberry stood at the pony's side, unsmiling, but as he shouldered his burdens and started for the downward slope, she called out,

"Go in hope, Boromir of Gondor! Remember, despair is the weapon of the Enemy!"

He turned and lifted a hand. "Farewell, Lady Goldberry."

Then he strode down the hill, into the gathering night, and did not look back. He did not see Goldberry standing, like a slim column of light upon the hilltop, watching him fade into the empty lands. He did not know that the sun had long sunk behind the black shoulders of the downs and the cold wind risen, before she mounted the pony and rode silently away. Boromir was a soldier with a duty to perform, and soldiers did not look back.

The teeth of the hills seemed to march on forever, grinding to dust any traveler unwary enough to enter them. Between them lay dark valleys cut by rocky streams, choked with clinging nettles and overhung by pine woods that creaked and moaned in the icy northern winds. As Goldberry had warned, Boromir found no path or track to lead him through this inhospitable land. He scrambled through the barren hills for countless days, always searching for some sign of the road and finding nothing but more rock, wood and dark water.

He tried to hold a course roughly north, knowing that the road lay in that direction. At night, the stars gave him some guidance, but they were all too frequently veiled behind cloud or hidden by the dense branches of the evergreens that stalked the hills. And he did not like to travel by night. The forest, dour enough by daylight, seemed to come alive with malevolent shadows when the sun fled.

Keeping in mind what Goldberry had told him of the creatures that hunted here, he was careful how he chose his camps. Where possible, he put solid rock at his back and something above his head to shelter him from the frequent rains. The first night he heard the wolves howling, he slept in the branches of a huge pine tree, but it was a fitful and troubled sleep. He did not try to spend the night aloft again, but he kept a fire banked beside him and his sword ready to hand.

Throughout this endless, numbing trek, he repeated Goldberry's final words to him, holding them up as a shield against the encroaching darkness. Her flower, now faded and crumpled, he carried tucked into the top of one gauntlet. None of her warmth lingered in the dead petals, but he could not bring himself to cast it away. It reminded him that the shadows were not impenetrable and defeat not certain.

On the evening of a nameless day - spent, like any other, scaling pitiless rocks and scrambling along treacherous slopes only to find more rocks, more slopes, and no pity at the end of them - Boromir began to look about him for a place to halt. He was working his way long the floor of a choked and twisted valley, with crags piled up to either side and darkening sky above. Walking was easier on the valley floor, but he would not sleep in such an exposed place. With an inward sigh, he turned his steps uphill, making for the stony heights.

He hardly noticed the first howl. He had listened to the wolves hunting these hills too often to let it worry him, now. But the second howl came from much nearer, and it lifted the hair on Boromir's scalp. Pausing in his climb, he looked about him nervously. A third howl answered the second, and this time, he was certain that the cry came from somewhere behind him on the opposite slope of the valley.

With a muttered curse, he began running up the hill. The burgeoning fear in him told him to run down, toward the flatter valley floor, where he could lengthen his stride and cover more ground, but he knew better than to heed that voice. He needed a defensible place, and that meant higher ground, with a hill at his back.

More howls came out of the night, moving inexorably closer and spreading out to flank him. They had scented their prey. Another shuddering cry sounded, ahead and above him. He cut to his left across the slope and picked up his pace, though his feet slid treacherously on loose earth and gravel. He had spotted what appeared to be a rock shelf poking out of the hillside, within reach, if he could only climb fast enough.

The cries of the hunting pack drew closer, and Boromir saw phantom shapes bounding through the trees below him. He was now using his hands nearly as much as his feet, grasping at exposed rocks and roots for balance, scrambling toward the illusory safety of the ledge. Paws thudded ominously just behind him, and the beast on the hill above gave voice to a long, chilling howl.

Boromir sensed the approach of the hunter behind. He heard the wolf's breathing, a harsh rasp in its throat, then the change in rhythm as it leapt. Fear made him reckless, and he threw himself to the right, away from its lunging jaws. Teeth fastened on his booted foot. He lashed out with all his strength, throwing the wolf off its feet and snapping its neck viciously. It loosened its grip long enough for Boromir to pull his foot free and fling himself up the slope. His left hand closed over the solid stone of the ledge, and with his right hand, he drew his sword, turning to meet his foe.

As the beast lunged again, Boromir met it with the point of his blade. The sword passed cleanly through its throat, and Boromir flung its heavy body away. A second shape leapt at him from the right, too fast for a clean thrust, but he managed to swing the flat of the blade into the creature's face and turn aside its snapping jaws. Then, he tossed his sword onto the ledge, caught the stone lip with both hands, and dragged himself onto the flat ground.

He barely had time to stagger to his feet and retrieve his sword before they were on him. Three great beasts, eyes blazing with hunger and hatred, hurled themselves at his throat. The largest of the three leapt the fastest and died first, its head lopped off with a single stroke from the great sword. Boromir whirled with the force of his stroke, turning away from the next pair of jaws and bringing his blade around in a singing arc to strike a slashing blow to the second beast's flank. It screamed and twisted in the air, flailing to reach its prey even as it died, and its snapping teeth struck Boromir in the forehead.

He did not feel the wound, in the frenzy of battle. Stepping clear of the twitching corpse, he turned to deflect the third wolf's attack with his gauntleted left arm and drove his blade into its exposed belly. Before he could free his sword, or wrench his leather-clad arm from the creature's dying jaws, Boromir was hit with a tremendous weight.

It fell on him from above, bearing him to the ground and tearing his sword hilt from his grasp. Boromir landed face down, the breath driven from his body by the impact. Then powerful jaws caught the edge of his shield and tried to wrench it from his back to bare his neck. With a cry of rage and disgust, Boromir threw off this new attacker and rolled to his feet.

He found himself staring into the burning eyes of a great wolf chieftain - the craftiest and fiercest hunter of these hills, marked with the scars of a hundred battles. The wolf, who had disdained the frontal assault of the pack, had crept up the hill behind Boromir and attacked from above, when he could not bring his weapon to bear. Now the great hunter faced its prey, open hunger glaring in its eyes. It did not hesitate, but leapt straight for Boromir's throat.

Boromir flung up an arm to protect himself from the flashing teeth, as the wolf's weight landed on his chest. He dropped heavily to his knees in a pool of cooling blood. Fangs sank into his arm, cutting through fabric, leather and mail to find living flesh. The taste of blood maddened the wolf, and it growled savagely, shaking its head from side to side as its jaws tightened. Boromir cried out with as much fury as pain, and he struck the creature a stunning blow to the head with his fist. The wolf released its grip, but only to hurl itself at his unprotected throat again.

Boromir blocked its lunge with his forearm, thrusting his already torn and bleeding limb into the creature's jaws and heaving it back on its own haunches. The man had the advantage in height, if not in strength, and the beast gave ground. Its hold on his arm slackened, and Boromir tore himself free. At the same time, he fumbled behind him with his left hand, knowing that the blood he knelt in flowed from the body of a dead wolf, and searching desperately for the sword still buried in that body.

The monster came again, relentless in its urge to kill. Boromir braced himself to meet it, as he had before, taking the brunt of the attack with his injured arm to spare his more vital and vulnerable parts. But this time, he was prepared. As the wolf struck, its jaws closing on him with such force that they drove the links of his chain mail into his flesh, Boromir brought the hilt of his sword down on its skull with a sickening crunch.

The wolf gave a yelp of pain, and its bite loosened momentarily. Boromir lurched drunkenly to his feet, dragging the wolf up with him, as it refused to let go. He now had room to use his weapon. Reversing his grip on the sword, he hacked viciously at the wolf's neck with the blade. Blood fountained from the wound. The animal's eyes glazed. Another blow, awkward with his left hand and brutal with his pain and anger, left Boromir soaked with blood but finally free of the beast's jaws.

He staggered backward, away from the flailing of the dying wolf, and tripped over the other corpse at his feet. Fighting for balance, he lurched to the outer rim of the ledge, where he stood, swaying slightly, listening to a profound silence broken only by his own ragged breathing.

Nothing moved in the darkness. Nothing hunted him, now. His sword point dropped to the stone at his feet, and he sank slowly to his knees. Agony washed through him, making his body shake as if with fever. Blood ran into his eyes from a long gash on his forehead and filled the glove on his right hand. The stench of death hung sickeningly in the air.

Boromir knelt on the cold stone, his eyes closed, searching deep in himself for the core of certainty that had carried him through countless battles - the certainty that he had the strength and the right to pick himself up out of the carnage and fight on. It never deserted him - Gondor's greatest soldier, Gondor's favored son - it lifted him up out of loss and defeat too grievous to bear. And he would find it now, in spite of the weakness and pain that filled his body to overflowing. He must find it, or die.

His left hand moved of its own accord to the top of his right gauntlet, now slick and foul with his own blood. Sliding two fingers beneath the leather, he reached for the flower that he had hidden there. He felt only more blood trickling down his sleeve from his ragged wounds. Slowly, as if knowing and dreading what he would see, he pulled his hand away and spread his fingers. The watery moon shed just enough light to reveal the few crumpled, torn and bloody petals that clung to his glove.

Despair flooded him, borne on the hot poison that already burned in his wounds and the chill breath of the black rider that seemed to hang about him still. A low, inhuman cry forced its way past his clenched teeth, laden with a suffering too deep for words. He was alone. Lost. Torn in body and spirit, until he did not have the strength to find his feet again. And now even the memory of the River Daughter's words had deserted him.

Drawing his wounded arm in against his body, as though cradling the agony of it closer, he slumped forward until his forehead touched stone. His eyes closed, and tears painted gleaming tracks through the blood on his face. Very softly, for the words were meant for one who could not hear him anyway, he whispered,

"Faramir. Faramir, I'm sorry. I promised I would find your legends for you, but I cannot. I do not know the way, and I am... tired. Forgive me, brother."


	5. The King's Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

The night had grown unseasonably warm. Or perhaps, he had simply stopped feeling the cold as he ought. Lying in a small hollow among the rocks, staring up at the brilliant stars, he felt oddly detached from himself and nearly beyond the reach of his body's pains. The fierce torment of his wounds and the fever that burned in his blood belonged to another man - to the man who had stumbled into this hollow, fleeing the foul taint of death on the air and the furtive rustling of scavengers, only to wait for death himself - not to the man who lay dreaming under the stars.

He did not remember leaving the stone ledge, with its litter of carrion, or wandering the stony heights in search of a sheltered place to rest. He had no idea how long he had searched, how many hours, how many days had slipped by him. He knew only that he had come to the end of his strength and would soon join his slaughtered foes in death.

Above him, the stars were singing, as Faramir had always told him they sang. He gazed up at them, his face calm beneath its mask of blood and dirt, and fancied that they stooped down upon him from their high seats, come to see the mortal breathe his last. Boromir lifted one hand to touch them and was vaguely surprised that his gloved fist closed on naught but air. He opened his hand and watched the stars glimmer between his fingers. So beautiful they were, and so cold. So utterly unmoved by the plight of one beleaguered man, who lay beneath their canopy. What was he to them, but another scrap of fragile mortality?

"I might have been more than that" he murmured, his voice barely carrying past his own lips. "I might have struck a lasting blow against the Shadow, before it smothers us all. Even you."

He trailed his fingers slowly through the air, as though expecting the stars to swirl and dance on the eddies he made. "When the darkness comes, will you remember me? Will you remember the warrior who died with the name of Imladris on his lips?"

His eyes closed and his hand fell to the carpet of leaves beside him. "Imladris," he whispered again, though his breath failed and his voice faded to nothing. "Imladris."

He had vowed to find Imladris or die with its name on his lips, and Boromir knew that he would never find the home of Elrond Half-Elven now. This, then, was the only honor left to him - to mouth a meaningless word in service to his vow, to gaze up at the indifferent stars and pray that Faramir, gazing upon those same stars, knew that Boromir had not broken faith with him.

"Imladris," he murmured, a final time.

"Come with me, if you would find Imladris."

Boromir heard the voice clearly, but caught as he was in his waking dream of stars and death, he felt no fear, no surprise, only a mild curiosity. His eyes drifted slowly open, and he gazed into the face of a stranger bending over him. It was a man, seemingly made of shifting starlight and the shadows of trees visible through insubstantial flesh. His long hair fell to his shoulders, and his cloak lay about his neck like a robe of state. He was neither old nor young, but aged by sorrow and as beautiful as any youth in the first flush of manhood, and his eyes shone with a wisdom that stripped Boromir's soul bare and forgave him for what they saw, all with one, piercing glance.

Boromir lifted a hand to touch the face, and once again, his fingers closed on nothing. He gazed at the stranger in wonder.

"What are you?"

"Come," the stranger repeated, "the hour grows late."

"You aren't real. Am I dreaming?" The stranger smiled slightly. "Am I dead?"

In answer, the man rose smoothly to his feet, from where he had knelt in the leaves at Boromir's side. Boromir pushed himself awkwardly upright, using only one arm, and craned his neck to look up at the beautiful, enigmatic face. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To Imladris."

"Am I coming with you?"

"That is your choice."

Then the stranger turned away, and as he moved, Boromir saw something flash upon his brow.

"Wait!" Boromir gasped.

His wounds and weakness forgotten, he leapt to his feet and took a hasty stride toward the stranger. His heart labored in his breast, and it seemed to him as though it would burst with the awe that filled it. For there, glimmering upon the proud head of the stranger, sat a lofty helm with wings of silver and pearl, and seven stones burning like stars in a circlet about its rim. He saw it for only one, blinding moment, but in that moment, Boromir knew it for what it was - the crown of Ëarnur. The crown of Gondor.

Boromir stretched out his hand again, reaching for the insubstantial vision before him, and whispered, "The crown..." He swayed, as though struck a terrible blow, and his fever-bright eyes slid out of focus. "Are you... are you Isildur himself, or one of his heirs? Why do you wear Gondor's crown?"

The stranger only smiled again and headed for the lip of the hollow.

"My king!"

The stranger stepped over the screen of boulders and plunged into the darkness between the trees. Boromir gave a breathless cry and scrambled after him, though the ground seemed to shudder beneath his feet and the trees writhe away when he tried to grasp their trunks for balance. He kept his eyes fixed on the gently shining figure ahead, following it through the drunken night.

The apparition led him up a steep slope, toward the rocky crag at the head of the valley. Boromir scrambled up the hill, always a few paces behind the other's booted heels, never quite losing sight of his guide among the trees and stones. He reached the rocky saddle at the top of the crag and paused to catch his breath. Below him, the stranger picked a narrow, treacherous path down the sheer mountainside that Boromir could not see. Without stopping to consider the folly of his actions, Boromir plunged down the crag after him.

Their way led into a deep, folded valley, then up the face of another barren ridge of stone. When Boromir's steps faltered, the dream vision before him would slow his pace enough to stay within sight, but he did not turn to offer any encouragement. He simply walked, effortlessly, swiftly, his long cloak brushing his heels with every step, and his curiously-wrought scabbard flashing at his side. Only by keeping his eyes riveted on the vision of his king could Boromir force his limbs to climb or his lungs to breathe. And so the stranger drew him on, through the cold, biting wilderness, toward what, Boromir did not know.

Then, with eerie suddenness, the stranger halted. Boromir pushed his way past a gnarled thorn bush, stepped over a line of broken stones, and found himself standing in an open, moonlit space. Only a few paces away from him stood the stranger, and once again, he wore the crown of Gondor upon his brow. Boromir took a step toward the lordly figure, drawn to it against his will or conscious thought. The words he did not believe, yet could not leave unsaid, formed silently on his lips.

"My king."

The vision heard him and smiled. Then, before Boromir's horrified eyes, it vanished. Boromir gave a tearing cry and lurched forward, to where the image of his king had stood, and stared around him in agonized despair. Tears blinded him. His legs collapsed, and he found himself kneeling on a smooth, hard surface. Placing his gloved left hand carefully on the ground, as though afraid it would dissolve under his touch, he fixed his eyes on the dirt between his fingers. Then he carefully lifted his head, following the ribbon of packed earth and gravel with his eyes, to where it swept around the shoulder of a hill and disappeared.

A small sob of laughter rose in his throat, as he finally realized where he was. The apparition had brought him to the road. The laughter kept coming, and Boromir crumpled slowly to the ground, clutching his wounded arm to his body and laughing, laughing, in feverish, hysterical euphoria. He did not know which direction to take or how far he might be from Rivendell. He had neither food nor water, did not have the strength to lift his head, and was only held here, in this drained and broken body, by the fire of his own will. But he was on the road.

A distant drumming echoed through the ground beneath him, pounding uncomfortably in his head. Boromir recognized the sound as horses' hooves. His laughter abruptly died, as a chilling memory came to him of a cloaked rider on a towering black horse. He tried to stand, thinking to flee the road and hide himself in the darkness of the trees, but he found that he could no longer move. He could only lie in an abject huddle in the middle of the road, waiting for the black hooves to ride over him.

They came swiftly, galloping around the hill's shoulder and into sight, a group of six horsemen. To Boromir, they seemed no more substantial than the night shadows, a rush of grey and silver bearing down upon him. They wore no cloaks or hoods, and he saw the sheen of moonlight on uncovered hair as they drew nearer.

Then they were upon him, the horses checking their strides and dancing away from the body in the road. A low voice called a sharp command. Tall figures swung down from blowing, stamping horses. Booted feet stepped lightly about him, and strange words flew over him.

Boromir tried again to rise, but an ungloved hand clasped his shoulder and held him still. A figure clad in grey and deep green stooped over him and said something in an unknown tongue. As the rider lifted his head to speak to one of his companions, his long hair fell back from his face to reveal a delicately pointed ear. Boromir stared at that ear, immobile, while recognition finally seeped through the hot soup of illness in his mind. Then he smiled and let his eyes fall closed.

They were elves. He had found the elves.

They made camp in a small hollow beside the road. Over the fire, one of the elves set water to boil, while others tended to the horses and laid a simple meal. They moved like flickers of moonlight through the trees - swift, graceful and silent - and when they spoke, their voices were liquid whispers on the night air. Boromir listened to their speech in silence, content to enjoy its music without understanding a word of it. He ate and drank what they pressed upon him, though in his distracted state, he did not notice what passed his lips.

The surge of febrile excitement that had brought him to the road had faded with the image of his king. Now it cost him the last of his waning strength simply to keep his head up and his eyes open, but he might have spared himself the effort. His own illness, mixed with the haunting glamour of the elves, blurred his senses until he could not discern the living creatures about him from the dancing shadows of his dreams.

Their leader - a tall, dark-haired elf with an air of command about him - loomed suddenly up from the darkness beyond the fire and crouched in front of him. He fixed Boromir with intent grey eyes, his face kindly but unsmiling, and held out a silver flask.

"Drink this. It will clear your head," he said, in the common tongue.

Boromir took the flask in his left hand and made no protest when the elf's fingers closed over his, guiding his movements. He could not have lifted the flask to his lips unassisted. The elf allowed him one mouthful its contents, then sat back on his heels to wait.

Boromir tasted the warmth of the liquor on his tongue, rich and fragrant. He swallowed and immediately felt the fever in his blood cool, replaced by a reviving warmth that brought life back to his drained and poisoned body. At the same time, the dark mists lifted from his mind, leaving him alert and aware, but with nothing to shield him from the pain of his wounds.

The agony was as fierce and hot as the moment the wolf's teeth had pierced his flesh, and Boromir reeled under this fresh assault. Darkness clouded his sight, and he began to crumple toward the ground, clutching his arm to his suddenly shaking body. Then he felt the elf's hand clasp his wrist, steadying him and lending him strength. Struggling for control, he straightened himself, and looked up into the grave, ageless face bent over him.

"How old are these wounds?"

Boromir shook his head. "I do not know."

Black brows lifted in a silent query.

"I remember nothing after the wolves, until..." His words trailed off, as the image of a kingly face swam before his eyes again.

"Wolves?" The elf began unbuckling the gauntlet on Boromir's right forearm. "You were bitten?"

"Yes."

"They are fell beasts that hunt these hills. Their bites are foul and poisonous."

Boromir laughed mirthlessly. "I do not need the wisdom of the Eldar to tell me that."

For the first time, a hint of a smile lightened the elf's face. "Mayhap my wisdom can be made better use of than to state the obvious. I have some skill as a healer."

As he spoke, the elf looked down at the gauntlet he held. Surprise swept over his face, and he glanced questioningly from the tooled leather in his hands to the face of his guest. His long fingers traced the device of the white tree.

"Nimloth," he murmured, then he twisted around to call sharply to one of the shadowy figures beyond the firelight. In answer, another elf, as like the first as two arrows in the same quiver, hurried over to the fire. He cast a swift smile of acknowledgment at Boromir, then dropped to one knee beside his twin. Boromir watched them, bemused, wondering if his fever had risen again and his eyes were deceiving him.

The first elf held out the gauntlet to the other and said something in his own tongue. The second looked again at Boromir, more thoughtfully, and said,

"It seems we have found Lord Elrond's missing envoy. You are bound for Imladris, man of Gondor?"

Boromir nodded.

"I am Elladan," the second elf said. "This is my brother, Elrohir. We are the sons of Elrond, out of Imladris. Do you have a name?"

"Boromir."

The fine, black brows rose in amazement. "Son of Denethor?"

"The same."

Elladan's grey eyes glimmered in a smile. "You might have told us that we entertained nobility in our humble camp. It seems, brother, that we are obliged to save his life, after all."

Boromir betrayed a flash of alarm, then relaxed as he recognized the bantering note in Elladan's voice. The elf was teasing him, but he was too tired and ill to appreciate it. He only wanted to stop hurting long enough to sleep.

Elrohir did not respond to his brother's humor, either. He had turned his attention back to the ugly wounds on Boromir's arm and was trying to peel back the sleeve of his mail shirt. It stuck, and Boromir gave a hiss of pain.

Elrohir spoke urgently to his brother in Elvish, then said to Boromir, "These wounds must be cleaned and dressed, but first, we must remove the mail."

His eyes lingered doubtfully on Boromir's drawn, ashen face as he spoke, and Boromir knew exactly what was passing through his mind. He was envisioning the man's reaction, when he tore the chain mail links from the bruised, savaged flesh of his arm.

"Leave it. It will keep 'til I reach Imladris."

"It will not." Elrohir's tone was flat and final. "Brother, your help, if you please."

Boromir started to protest a second time, but he suddenly found himself being ruthlessly and efficiently divested of all his outer clothing by strong, impersonal hands. It was humiliating to sit there, helpless, while a matched set of elves stripped him as easily as if he were a doll. Had he been able to use his sword arm, he would have been sorely tempted to teach them a lesson in respect, but under the circumstances, the only thing he could do was clench his teeth and suffer through their ministrations in silence.

When he was reduced to nothing but his breeches, his mail shirt, and the light silk shirt he always wore beneath the mail, Elrohir gathered up his bloodstained garments and tossed them to another elf with a low-voiced order. Turning back to Boromir, he explained, "It is perilous to travel these woods, with the odor of blood and death upon you."

Boromir realized that the unnamed elf had been sent to do his laundry, and he felt a fresh wave of embarrassment hit him. This pack of elves were taking the utmost care of him, and making him feel like an erring child in the process, a child who had just been gently reprimanded for soiling his good tunic. Avoiding Elrohir's gaze, he nodded at his mailed arm and growled, "If you must take that off, do it quickly."

Elrohir nodded equably and murmured brief instructions to his brother that Boromir could not understand. Once again, the pair began to undress him, sliding his left arm, head and body free of the mail shirt, 'til the full weight of it hung over his right shoulder and only his right arm remained covered. At another low word from Elrohir, Elladan shook out Boromir's cloak and draped it around his shoulders.

"The night grows cold. And this is going to hurt." The elf knelt behind him and looped an arm across his chest, holding him with an unexpected strength. "Try to remain still."

Before Boromir could answer him, Elrohir lifted the steaming pot from the fire and poured scalding water up the length of his arm. Boromir gave a hiss of alarm and instinctively recoiled, but Elrohir's clasp on his wrist restrained him. Then the pain struck. With a wordless, wrenching cry, Boromir fought to tear himself away from the hands that imprisoned and tormented him. Elladan's arm across his chest kept him from pitching to the ground, and Boromir collapsed against the comfortingly solid elf, sick and shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps through clenched teeth and his eyes closed.

It was not until one of them poured another draught of the heady elvish liquor down his throat that he revived enough to open his eyes and look about him. His bleared gaze fell upon Elrohir, holding up his mail shirt in triumph, and he realized that the arm he clutched so protectively to his body was clad in nothing but slashed and bloody silk. He gave a deep, exhausted groan and let his head fall back against Elladan's shoulder.

"Are you trying to cook me?" Boromir muttered, his words slurring drunkenly with exhaustion.

"Would you rather he strip the meat from your bones?" Elladan retorted, amusement plain in his voice. "The heat softened the wounds and allowed him to free the metal, without flaying your arm."

"Remind me to thank him."

Elladan chuckled softly. Shifting his hold on the limp, nearly insensible body in his arms, he settled Boromir on the ground and put something slightly softer than a rock beneath his head. "Rest now," he advised. "The worst is past, and my brother will tend to your wounds."

For once, the elf did not try to jest with him, for which Boromir was grateful. He was also grateful for the cloak pulled carefully over him and the warmth of the nearby fire. So deep was his weariness that he drifted off to sleep, heedless of any further abuse that Elrohir might visit upon him.

The touch of something cold on his forehead woke him. His eyes drifted reluctantly open, and he saw one of the twins bending over him. He could not tell which one, until the elf spoke and he recognized the grave tone as Elrohir's.

"This is from a wolf's tooth, as well?"

It took Boromir a moment to remember the cut on his forehead, then he grunted wordless assent.

"You were fortunate to find us when you did, Son of Denethor. I have done my utmost to check the poison in your wounds, but they will need the care of Lord Elrond to heal fully." He hesitated, then added in a low, somber voice, "The black breath breeds corruption. I have not the skill to counter it."

"The black breath?" Boromir struggled to push himself upright, a thrill of apprehension running through him, though he did not know why. "What is the black breath?"

"You have met the servant of the Enemy, Boromir, and been touched by his foul breath. I can see the shadow in you, even now."

Boromir shuddered. "The black rider."

"That is how they appear in the mortal world. A rider cloaked in black. Did you not know him?" Boromir shook his head, mutely. "It was a Nazgûl."

Boromir stared at him in growing dread, feeling his skin crawl at the mention of that ancient evil. "The Nazgûl? That is the nameless power in the Morgul Vale? That is the weapon the Enemy holds over us?"

"You have felt it, before."

"Felt it, yes, but never seen the thing that wields it." He fell silent, seeing again the towering form of the black rider and feeling again the deadly cold it exhaled. He murmured, more to himself than to Elrohir, "The Nazgûl. I thought they were destroyed, when the Enemy fell to Elendil's sword."

"So long as the Dark Lord endures, they will endure, and they will ride forth at his bidding. My father has long known the Nine were abroad, and he has been searching for the messenger of Gondor in some anxiety, fearing you had fallen foul of them."

Boromir gazed at the elf in surprise. "You were looking for me?"

"Nay. Our meeting was by chance, alone." Elrohir cast a troubled glance about him, and not for the first time, Boromir sensed the urgency beneath his calm demeanor. "We ride on vital business for the Lord Elrond, and we may not turn aside, even to escort Denethor's son to Imladris. But I can give you a single guide and a horse."

Boromir turned doubtful eyes on the horses that grazed around the fringes of the camp. They were kingly beasts, tall and strong and fleet of foot. To the weary and battered man, their proud backs seemed far out of reach. He shook his head.

"I cannot ride."

"Come the sunrise, you must."

The elves broke camp at dawn, and by the time the sun cast its first rays through the trees, Boromir was seated on the back of a prancing, grey stallion, watching the elves depart. The company wheeled their horses toward the west and lifted their hands in farewell to the man and the fair-haired elf who rode with him.

"Bring him safely to my father," Elrohir instructed the elf. "Boromir, ride swiftly, stay for naught, and you will reach Imladris in good time."

Boromir raised his left hand in salute. "My thanks, sons of Elrond."

Elladan smiled and reached forward to clasp Boromir's arm. "Mayhap we will draw our swords together, and prove our valor on the field of battle. But until such time, beware of wolves!"

"Join me in Gondor, and I promise you all the battles your heart could crave."

"I shall. I've an ambition to see you cleave orc necks with that mighty blade of yours. Farewell, Boromir."

"Farewell."

The riders spoke softly to their mounts, and the horses leapt away, vanishing into the heavy morning mists that cloaked the road.

"Come," the elf said, "we must away."

He turned his horse with a word, and Boromir's followed without instruction from him. The two mounts fell into a swift, effortless stride that ate up the leagues beneath their hooves. Boromir found that he did not have to guide the horse - in fact, he could not, without bridle, rein or saddle - and he slowly relaxed into the strange helplessness of letting the horse guide him. The elf, Faranthil, set their pace, and the road marked their path. All Boromir need do was stay astride his mount, and Faranthil assured him that the horse would not suffer him to fall.

They rode in silence, for the most part. A few hours into the ride, they crossed the Hoarwell on a vast, ancient stone bridge, and Boromir was heartened by the sight of this milestone. But the cruel mountains quickly closed in around them, and the forest marched endlessly on either side. By midday, Boromir's wounds had begun to pain him again, and his body ached with weariness, but he said nothing to Faranthil. Some of Elrohir's urgency had infected him, and he thought only of reaching Imladris with all possible speed. Rest did not tempt him. It meant only delay.

As the day lengthened, and the sickness in him grew, he slipped into a kind of waking dream. It was not the warm, fevered dream of his vision, but a cold and comfortless one. The chill around his heart thickened, and dark fogs obscured his sight.

It seemed to Boromir, at times, that his brother rode beside him, silent and grave as a judge. Boromir spoke to him, though he received no answer. And in the freedom of his illness and despair, with his brother voiceless beside him, he was able to express himself in a way that he never had before, without resorting to arrogance or command to carry his point. He told his brother how he admired him, how he valued his wisdom and clear head, how he longed to see Denethor take Faramir's hand and raise him to the place he deserved at his father's side. And how often he had tried to bring this about, only succeeding in angering both father and brother.

At other times, goaded by the disappointment and sorrow in Faramir's eyes, he harkened back to their long arguments about the future of Gondor and her empty throne.

"I would bring back the glory of Numenor to our city and our people," he insisted. And it seemed to his wounded, wishful heart that, for once, his brother heard him. "I would find the Sword that was Broken. I would bring you a king out of legend to sit upon the empty throne in Denethor's hall, and I would bow my head in allegiance to such a king. But the kings of Numenor are lost, scattered, diminished, no longer worthy of the city that awaits them. In their absence, why should I not ascend that throne myself? Why should I not take upon my shoulders the burden of ruling and preserving the city of Elendil?

"It is all I desire, not out of ambition, but out of love and duty. I am firstborn, before you not because I am more worthy of greatness, but because I have the broad back and bright sword that can safeguard our people. You are the soul of Minas Tirith, Faramir, but I am its strength. I would stand as a bulwark between our people and the coming shadows, the first to draw blade and the last to fall. That is my fate. My rightful place."

As he gave this impassioned speech, he thought of the king who had come to him in his direst need. He thought of the strength and wisdom in that face, and he knew that even he, Boromir of Gondor, would gladly bend his knee to such a king. If he could bring that king back to Faramir, then his brother would finally believe in his good faith, and they would bend their knees, together, before the rightful king of Gondor. If he could find that king...

How much of his mental turmoil Faranthil perceived Boromir did not know and would not ask. The elf said nothing, beyond the simplest of instructions, until he called a short halt in the darkest hour of the night. They did not bother to make camp or light a fire. They stopped only because the injured man could not ride farther without rest. Boromir tumbled from the back of his horse into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Faranthil roused him before first light, with a cold meal and a mouthful of the cordial from Elrohir's silver flask - _miruvor_ , he called it. They set out, and once the effects of the liquor wore off, Boromir slipped again into his dark, half-dreaming state, where he saw nothing but the shades of his own imagination and the tireless back of the elf riding ahead of him. Two more days passed in this way, until, on the morning of the third day, they crossed the Loudwater at the Ford of Rivendell. Beyond the river, the road turned into a winding forest track. They slowed their pace, perforce, but the horses scented home and pressed ahead as quickly as the narrow path allowed.

Despite his growing tension, as he neared the end of his long journey, and despite his best efforts to stay alert, Boromir's mind was drifting again, when suddenly, the elf in front of him vanished. He jerked upright in surprise, then his own horse leapt forward and plunged over the lip of a valley that opened precipitously beneath its hooves. They clattered swiftly down a track that was almost a stair, so steeply did it delve into the cloven earth. Clinging to the horse's mane, as much for reassurance as balance, Boromir tried to look in every direction at once, but the silver Autumn trees, moss-covered dells and dancing waterfalls swept by him so quickly that he could not take them in. He got only a fleeting impression of soaring beauty and a sweet, ancient melancholy, filled with the music of elves.

Then he and Faranthil were cantering between graceful, white pillars and into a small glade. His horse thudded to a stop beside a stone fountain, and Boromir slid awkwardly from the animal's back, trying not to strain his useless right arm or betray the extent of his weakness. An elf strode toward him, and Boromir did not need Faranthil's respectful salute to know that this was Elrond Half-Elven himself, Lord of Rivendell. His proud but kindly countenance, midnight hair and piercing grey eyes, so like his sons', warned Boromir before his boots had even touched the grass, that he was about to meet a living legend.

Canny soldier that he was, Boromir kept his injuries and his uncertainty to himself. He held himself as befit the Captain-General of Gondor, back straight, head high, gaze unwavering, as Elrond approached. The elven lore-master wore an enigmatic look, as he halted beside the fountain and inclined his head in greeting.

Boromir bowed, a bit more stiffly than usual but with creditable grace, and said, "Master Elrond."

He had a careful speech prepared, touching on his quest and asking Elrond, in as dignified a manner as possible, for his hospitality, but the elf did not give him a chance to deliver it. In a voice that perfectly blended gravity and amusement, Elrond said,

"Welcome, Boromir, son of Denethor. You are late."


	6. The Face of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

"What say you, now, Elrond?"

"The wounds will heal cleanly. As for the other..."

"Your skills have never yet failed you."

"I rarely use them on those of his race, and the taint of the Enemy was foul within him."

The voices came from just above him, drawing him slowly up from a deep sleep. His body was not yet his to command, so he could do no more than listen, though he doubted the words they spoke were meant for his ears. He lay with eyes closed, as still as the death that had so nearly claimed him, while the voices continued.

"But you have cleansed away that taint, and the Man heals."

"Aye," Elrond answered, slowly, as though loath to commit himself. "For now."

"What of the Council, then? You will postpone it, until Boromir is well enough to attend?"

"I fear we have no choice. He is the voice of Minas Tirith, nay, of all Gondor in our counsels. I would resolve this matter at once, but I cannot, without Gondor."

"Well, Frodo, for one, will not complain of the delay, and I would see him better rested before such an ordeal."

"One day. No more. Elves, dwarves and men have arrived, Frodo mends, and time passes all too swiftly. We can afford no more than a day, Gandalf."

Gandalf! The name shocked Boromir out of his stupor and brought his eyes abruptly open. Looking about him in momentary confusion, his eyes narrowed against the light, he found himself lying in a wide, white bed, with cushions behind his back and head and supporting his injured arm. He lay wrapped in warmth and comfort so complete that he could not have stirred himself and disturbed the utter stillness of his body, had an army of orcs stormed over the parapet to reach him. He recognized the chamber as the one where Elrond had brought him upon his arrival. The walls were cut of pale stone, carved into graceful and fantastic shapes, the ceiling upheld by pillars shaped as mighty trees. To his right, the room opened onto a wide colonnade that overlooked the valley. No glazing or shutters protected the lofty archways, and the air carried the scent of dry leaves and cold, stone pools.

Then his eyes wandered to his left, toward the inner doorway, and he saw two figures standing beside his bed. Aware of his waking, they both gazed at him expectantly. One was Lord Elrond, and the other...

"Mithrandir," he muttered, his voice thick with long sleep.

The wizard's shrewd eyes twinkled at him from beneath bristling, white brows. "Well met, Boromir. We had almost given you up for lost."

"Mithrandir." Boromir made an effort to collect his thoughts and finally managed to voice one of the myriad questions clogging his mind. "What are you doing here?"

"Seeking the counsel of the Wise, as are you."

"I did not think Gandalf the Grey ever sought the counsel of others."

"No more did I think it of you, Son of Denethor."

Boromir was not so sleepy that he missed the pointed mention of his father, or the gentle mockery in the wizard's words. There was no love between Denethor and Mithrandir, and little tolerance. Boromir suspected that much of the fault lay in his father's pride and fierce independence, but loyalty to his lord would not allow him to admit as much. He kept his face neutral, as he gazed up into the bearded, weathered visage of the old wizard.

Mithrandir planted his fists at his waist, smiling down at Boromir with unexpected affection in his gaze. "It seems you met with some adventures on your road."

"None to speak of."

The wizard chuckled at his dry tone. "When Elrond told me that a seeker from the White City was lost in the wilds about Rivendell, I feared the worst. Now, I see that I will not have to bear the tale of your death back to your father, for which I am deeply grateful. I leave you to Master Elrond's care, but I say again, well met. And I shall remember, for the future, that nearly being made into a wolf's supper is 'nothing to speak of'."

Still chuckling, Mithrandir strode out of the room, leaving Boromir alone with Elrond. Bracing himself, the weary soldier turned his gaze on the enigmatic elf lord.

Boromir had no idea what to expect from Elrond. He had not spoken above a dozen words to him, at their first meeting, before the elf had whisked him away to this room and this bed, and ordered him to sleep. He had not intended to obey, being far too curious about his surroundings and anxious to tell Elrond of his quest, but something in the air of the room had overpowered him. One moment, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring about him in wonder, and the next, he was lying in a crumpled heap in the middle of the wide mattress, his mind awash in dreams.

Some of those dreams, he knew, were no part of sleep. He remembered Elrond's face and the sound of soft, elven voices singing. He remembered words spoken to him in a language he did not understand, words as beautiful and terrible as blades that pierced his head and breast, driving pitilessly through him. Where the words pierced him, he bled, pain and corruption and lurking shadows flowing darkly from the wounds. The blood-letting was an agony, but as the evil drained out of him, it left him lightened, unstained. And even the pain of it was a gift.

Then came the dreams of true sleep, muted and healing, and the long, slow, gentle waking. He had drifted up from the sheltering darkness to the sound of voices, to find himself eavesdropping on Elrond and Mithrandir, hearing words he would rather not have heard. Now he faced a complete unknown, and for once in his life, he did not feel himself equal to the challenge.

Elrond seemed to sense his wariness and unease, for his stern features softened as he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Not so cold."

"The shadow that chilled you has been lifted. You need only rest to heal, now."

"I thank you, Master Elrond."

Elrond nodded gracious acceptance of his words, then fixed those piercing eyes on his face again. "You are mended in spirit, but you are not easy in mind. What troubles you, Boromir of Gondor?"

Boromir hesitated for a moment, then, emboldened by his open manner, asked, "How did you know I was coming?"

"I did not. I knew that members of all the free races of Middle-earth were making their way to Imladris, drawn here by the currents of fate, of good and evil, of crisis and decision. I knew that some of your race would come, and I knew that among them must be one from Minas Tirith, the citadel of Men. Beyond that," he lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug, "I merely waited upon events."

"Then, you knew nothing of the dream that brought me hither."

"How should I?" Boromir gave no answer, but at his embarrassed look, the elf lips quirked in a wry smile. "Is that the kind of tale they tell of the Eldar, in these times? Nay, Boromir. I do not invade the dreams of Men. If I wanted to summon the son of Denethor to my council, I would use more direct means."

"Yet, when we met, you called me by name."

"You were then within the borders of my realm, and all herein are known to me."

In the face of the elven lord's quiet mirth, Boromir could not bring himself to mention the trouble closest to his heart, the kingly vision that had visited him in the wilderness. He felt exposed and off balance, as if he had wandered into one of his brother's fanciful tales, and he would not betray his uncertainty any further. Retreating into dry humor, he murmured, "A remarkably elvish answer."

Elrond smiled again. "And a remarkably human reaction. Rest, now, Soldier of Gondor. The fate of Middle-earth will wait for yet another day, as will your questions." The elf reached toward him with one strong, slender hand. "Rest and heal."

Boromir had no chance to protest. The instant Elrond's hand touched his forehead, his eyes closed and he slept.

When he awoke again, it was late afternoon, and he was alone. Boromir lay for some time in the restful stillness of the chamber, breathing in the strange, elvish air of the place and taking stock of his body's pains. His wounds still hurt, but it was the clean hurt of healing, not the foul rot of corruption, and the stiffness in his limbs told him that he needed activity more than rest. He knew from long experience that a brisk walk would give him more strength than another hour of sleep. And he was famished.

A glance around the room told him that Elrond had anticipated him. His clothing hung over a nearby chair, cleaned and furbished, and his sword stood ready to hand against the bedstead. On a table near the outer parapet lay an ample meal.

Boromir shoved back the blankets and got carefully to his feet. Lack of food and too much sleep made him lightheaded, and his body did not respond to his commands with its usual power or ease. He had to think ahead and give himself time to react, which only served to put him more off balance. The sense of having been ensnared in a legend, caught somewhere outside the mortal world, only intensified in the lonely peace of his chamber, and he found himself anxious to get back into his own clothing - his own skin.

He already wore a silken shirt, similar to the one mangled by the wolves but of distinctly elven design, which he left on to protect his bandaged wounds. Over this, he donned his mail, tunic, and full gear, leaving only his gloves and shield on the chair. His sword he buckled at his hip, though he did not believe he would need it in Elrond's house, nor that he could draw it if such need arose. It steadied him and reminded him of who and what he was.

Thus armored against the unknown, he sat down on the parapet, overlooking the deep, cloven dale of Imladris, and ate his meal. By the time he finished, the sun had slid well down the sky, throwing long shadows across the valley toward his high perch. Boromir picked up the last piece of fruit, tossing it idly into the air and catching it in his left hand, while his eyes roamed curiously over the fair buildings set into the steep, rocky sides of the vale. With his hunger appeased, he felt restless, full of energy, and unwilling to remain penned in his chamber any longer. So, with an apple in his hand and his sword at his side, he set out to explore Rivendell.

He came upon the great hall by accident, while wandering the vastness of Elrond's house. But even as he stepped through the archway and into the dim, lofty chamber, he suspected that the subtle magic of place had been guiding him here from the start. The feeling of unreality, of having blundered out of his own life and into an elven legend, intensified. In truth, this room seemed to be its source, and each step he took across the inlaid floor carried him another generation into the past, under the eyes of the watchful shadows. His booted feet echoed strangely in the silence, setting the carved pillars to whispering as he passed.

Down a handful of stairs and along the pillared gallery that circled the chamber he went, his steps slow as his eyes traveled about the hall in wonder. Suddenly, they were caught by a wash of ethereal color on the wall in front of him. He moved up to the mural and gazed at the familiar scene - infinitely familiar, though he had never set eyes on this painting before. It was a scene burned into the hearts and minds of every child of Gondor, every scion of the royal house of Men, every warrior who ever lifted a sword against the Shadow.

Sauron the Great and Isildur, the doomed hero of mankind. Boromir felt a thrill of awe and dread at the sight of them. They were the symbols that had governed his life since birth, and in this enchanted place, he could almost imagine that they breathed.

His eyes scanned the gallery again, eager for more to feast upon, and he saw a graceful statue gazing passionlessly at him from across the aisle. He crossed the gallery, then climbed two shallow, stone steps to reach the platform where the statue stood. She held a wide tray on her outstretched hands, and as Boromir looked down upon it, he felt a leap of amazement in his breast, a flare of wild hope. For there, gleaming against a white cloth, lay the broken remnants of a mighty sword. A sword out of legend.

"The shards of Narsil..." He had not intended to speak aloud, and was only half aware that he had done so. Reaching out to touch the grip of the sword, he lifted it from its stone bed and raised it into the light. "The sword that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand."

The weapon felt cold and solid in his hands, as real as the one that hung at his side. And yet, this could not be, for the Sword that was Broken was naught but an ancient legend, lost in the obscuring mists of time. He loosened his grip on the sword and ran one finger up the short length of blade. The ragged point, where the rest of the blade had been snapped off, caught at the tip of his finger, drawing blood. Boromir snatched his hand back.

"Still sharp."

He put the bleeding finger to his lips. It tasted of salt, warm and human. Boromir smiled and let his eyes caress the blade again. A legend it might be, but it was real enough to draw blood from a living man, and the solidity of it gave him renewed confidence in his burgeoning hopes. He was a man who believed in stout shields and sharp blades, not elvish sorcery, and his experiences on the road to Rivendell had shaken him badly. To find the Sword, in the very place the riddle promised, and to hold it in his hands, feel its edge on his flesh, was to believe.

Something new touched him, as he stood with Narsil's hiltshards in his hand, a sense of being watched that sent a prickle of apprehension down his spine. He turned quickly, to find a man seated only a few paces away, on a stone bench, a book open on his knee. The man's eyes were fixed on Boromir, vivid and intense, burning him with their gaze.

Boromir looked into the man's face, and for a terrible moment, he thought he had gone completely mad. The face before him swam out of focus, and over it he saw another face - starlight and shadows, with a crown shining upon its brow - the face of his vision. Almost, he stepped toward the man. Almost, he cried out in recognition and delight. But even as the sound rose to his lips, he choked it back and tore his eyes away from the haunting vision, for in that moment he realized that the man before him was no apparition. No crown flickered upon his brow. No starlight shone in his eyes. No ancient wisdom touched his features. He was as much a living creature as Boromir himself and entirely human.

Boromir's fingers opened of their own volition, and the sword hilt fell heavily to the stone tray, as he muttered, "No more than a broken handle."

He turned on his heel and strode away, hesitating only when he heard the hilt slip and clatter to the step. A dark flush crept into his cheeks, born of chagrin and a dull anger, and he flung himself up the stairs, out of the hall, as quickly as dignity allowed. Fleeing the cheating image of the king who was no king, he headed down the corridor toward the first open archway he could see and the freedom of open air.

The cool Autumn breeze was welcome on his overheated face. He leaned over the parapet and breathed deeply to calm his pounding heart, struggling for control and composure. So many emotions seethed within him that he could not sort them out or make sense of them, and he felt physically sick with their pressure.

He knew that the man seated back in the hall was not the king of his vision. He knew this, because reason forbade it. But in the months since his departure from Gondor, Boromir had walked far beyond the borders of reason, into a realm where dreams and legends had more substance than the mortal world. In this realm, where a broken sword presaged the doom of Middle-earth, could not his fever dream take shape into a king? That thought frightened him, but even more frightening was his willingness to believe it.

Tilting his head up to feel the soft breeze on his face, he whispered, "What is this place? How did I wander into it, and how do I find my way out again?"

"This is the fairest place in all Middle-earth, save one," a voice answered, from behind him, "and few who are fortunate enough to find it leave it willingly."

Boromir whirled around and backed defensively against the parapet, his hand reaching for his sword. In the shadow of the archway stood the man he had seen in the gallery.

"I beg your pardon," the man said. "I did not mean to startle you."

Boromir gave a muttered curse and let go of his sword hilt. "Then you shouldn't sneak up on me from behind."

The man smiled and took a step toward him, moving out from under the arch and into full sunlight, his booted feet silent against the stone. Boromir had to fight to stifle his reaction, as the clear light revealed the man's features to him, and he saw again the face of his vision before him. It was indeed the same face - ageless and fair, stern and kind - but the last vestiges of unreality were now gone from it, fled with the haunting shadows of the great hall, and Boromir could see the very human lines of fatigue and sorrow cut into it. Blue eyes met his directly for a moment, set beneath dark brows that seemed permanently creased with trouble. And behind the intent gaze Boromir saw something else that unsettled him even more. It was doubt, or hesitancy, a kind of subtle retreat, even though the man had sought him out and now forced this meeting upon him.

"I am no threat to you, Boromir of Gondor."

"Does _everyone_ in Imladris know my name?"

Boromir's sour annoyance brought the smile back to the stranger's face, though his eyes remained somber. "Gandalf told me you had arrived."

"And what concern is it of yours? Or Mithrandir's?"

"The fate of Middle-earth is the concern of us all. Is that not why we are here?"

"You sound just like an elf," Boromir muttered.

The man gave a slight, ironic bow. "I thank you."

"I did not mean it as a compliment. Who are you, that you look like a man, talk like an elf, and gossip with wizards?"

"I am called Strider."

"Strider? Captain of the Rangers?"

It was Strider's turn to look startled. "Aye."

"Then I have a message for you. I met one of your company on the Greenway, and he asked me to tell Strider that his brother-in-arms sends all duty and affection."

Strider nodded and murmured quiet thanks. Then, he fixed his eyes to Boromir's face again and asked, "Why do you look upon me as an enemy?"

"I do not." Under the ranger's steady gaze, Boromir squirmed slightly and lost some of his belligerence. "It is the air of this place. I do not belong here, among all this elvish strangeness, and it makes me feel... as though my thoughts are not my own."

He could not tell Strider the true cause of his discomfort, though the look of understanding in the other man's eyes tempted him. What would this ranger say, if Boromir were to tell him that he wore the face of an hallucination? No doubt, he would go straight to Lord Elrond to inform him that his patient was suffering delusions, and that would land Boromir back in his sickbed, with superior elven lords and meddlesome wizards standing over him, exchanging dire predictions about his sanity and strength. The very thought was appalling.

"There is no evil here, lest you bring it with you," Strider murmured.

Boromir winced at that unsubtle barb. He did not need the ranger to remind him that he had brought a shadow of evil into Rivendell, carried close about his heart and mind. Nor did he need the reminder of Elrond's words, so eloquent in their hesitation, warning that he might again fall prey to that evil. Most of all, he did not need to hear his private fears on another man's lips.

Strider must have read his reaction in his face, for he took a hasty step forward, lifting his hand toward the other man, and said, "Boromir..."

Boromir stiffened, drawing himself up and away from the open hand. "If you'll pardon me, I am weary." He gave a curt bow, soldier to soldier, and turned on his heel to leave.

"Boromir!"

"I have had enough of elvish answers for one day!" Then he strode away, ignoring Strider's exasperated call, his head held resolutely high.

'Gods and Devils!' he thought, as he walked swiftly along the graceful colonnade. 'How did I end up in this place?' His words to the ranger were only too true. He did not belong in this realm of sorcery and living legend. Faramir would understand it, even revel in it, but not Boromir. All Boromir wanted was a clear answer to his riddle and a fast horse back to Minas Tirith.


	7. The Making of the Fellowship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old, you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor."

Boromir listened to Elrond's words in closed, guarded silence. All around him sat the other representatives to the council - Elves, Dwarves and Men - from every free land west of the Shadow. Boromir recognized several of the men as nobles from lands that owed fealty to Gondor. He also recognized one of the elves of Mirkwood, far more familiar to the Men of the South than those of Rivendell, among the throng. The dwarves were unknown to him, but he had little traffic with dwarves.

To Boromir's left, in a protective group, sat Strider, Mithrandir and a small person who was entirely strange to Boromir's eyes. He looked like a child among them, slight and fragile, yet with a weight of trouble upon him that belied his apparent youth. Boromir had watched him surreptitiously, as they waited for the council to begin, savoring the name Elrond had given him. Halfling. That little one, huddled beside Mithrandir and looking as though the fate of the entire world rested upon his shoulders, was a halfling. Another legend, produced as if on demand, straight from the lines of his riddle.

Boromir looked again at the halfling, as Elrond spoke, wondering what part the little one played in these great events. He unconsciously rubbed his fingertip with his thumb, feeling the small cut made by the broken sword and remembering how it had drawn his blood, thereby proving its reality. So halflings were real, as well, and one of them sat but a few paces away from him, staring with haunted eyes into the middle distance. Such unbearably haunted eyes.

"Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

A slight, almost imperceptible chill went through Boromir, though whether at Elrond's words or at the look in the halfling's eyes, he did not know. He shuddered at its touch and forced his gaze back to the elf lord's face.

Elrond now turned to the halfling and gestured to the stone table in the center of the circle. "Bring forth the ring, Frodo."

The halfling climbed slowly to his feet, moving as though with the greatest reluctance. Boromir leaned forward in sudden eagerness, as Frodo neared the table and reached out to place an object in the middle of the stone slab. He heard a soft, seductive whispering in his mind, drawing him farther forward in his seat, closer to the thing that lay on the table, obscured by Frodo's hand. Then the halfling was backing away, leaving it exposed to the eyes of the council, and Boromir finally saw it.

A ring. Simple, perfect, magnificent, lying regally upon the rough stone, glowing with its own beauty. The whispering rose to an audible chant, beckoning to him, while flames danced across the ring's flawless surface. This was it, the last clue to his riddle and the last piece of the legend. The One Ring. Isildur's Bane.

"So it is true," he breathed, as he gazed, mesmerized, into the burning gold.

Of course. It all made sense to him, now. The Nazgûl had not been searching for Boromir of Gondor, but for Frodo of the Shire. The Enemy did not know of his quest or care what riddles he solved. The Enemy sought for Isildur's Bane, for the Ring of Power, for the treasure that had now, miraculously, come into the hands of the Lords of the West. As he sat in this chair, only half listening to the rising tide of voices around him, he knew that he gazed upon victory.

"It is a gift," he murmured, unaware that he had spoken aloud until he heard his own voice. But the truth of those words struck him forcibly, and he straightened up in his chair, raising his voice to be heard around the circle. "A gift to the foes of Mordor! Why not use this ring?"

His growing excitement brought him to his feet. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!"

"You cannot wield it!" Boromir spun around to face the speaker and found himself pinned by Strider's intent gaze. "None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

Boromir felt his own face tighten with contempt. This rootless wanderer from the North would not snatch victory from the hands of his people, not if he had anything to say about it. "And what would a ranger know of this matter?"

The elf from Mirkwood, Legolas, was suddenly on his feet, standing tall and haughty across the table from him. "This is no mere ranger," the elf said, angrily. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

The name struck Boromir a physical blow, staggering him with its force. He knew that name - had known from earliest memory - though he had believed the man Aragorn to be as distant a legend as the broken sword and the golden ring. He should have known better. In this, of all places, he should have expected...

Turning on the Ranger again, he met the piercing eyes and demanded, disbelief heavy in his voice, "Aragorn? This... is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," Legolas said.

The gazes of the two men locked, and Boromir felt the power of the man flaring behind those compelling blue eyes. But he also sensed the other, more troubling thing he had felt at their first meeting - the doubt, the withdrawal, as though honor forbade Aragorn to turn away his eyes, but he desperately wished to do so. For all that he held Boromir immobile with his gaze, his chin lifted proudly, he seemed to flinch at so direct a contact.

Aragorn remained unmoving, silently meeting Boromir's challenge, for a handful of seconds. Then he flicked his eyes away to look at the elf, and Boromir fancied he could hear the other man's sigh of relief at having an excuse to break the deadlock. He said something in Elvish that sent Legolas back to his seat in hostile silence.

Boromir let his eyes linger on Aragorn's face for another moment, and he muttered, savagely, "Gondor has no king." He turned away, bitterness and betrayal sour within him. "Gondor needs no king."

Then he dropped into his own seat and crossed his arms in a gesture of defiance. It seemed to him, as he sat and listened to the debate boil around him, that this was the final cruelty, the final joke, and it was all at his expense. The riddle, the tokens, the prophecies of doom, leading him to Rivendell and this. A king who wandered the wilderness in rags, leaving his people to fight the Enemy alone, who wrapped himself in mystery and elvish sorcery, who shied away from his duty to Gondor and his throne. And when the opportunity was given him to take up arms on their behalf, when the one weapon capable of defeating Sauron was placed before him, he rejected it. He would leave Gondor to be picked over by the crows of Mordor, while he wrestled with his personal demons.

Well, Boromir, for one, did not have time for personal demons. He had a throne to protect, even if its rightful king did not deserve it and would not live to plant his royal backside upon it. He sat here as the mouthpiece of Gondor, and as such, he would do his duty and give all these lofty folk the benefit of his inferior, human wisdom. Whether they availed themselves of it, or not, was up to them.

Mithrandir now spoke for the first time. "Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

"You have only one choice. The ring must be destroyed," Elrond said.

One of the dwarves leapt to his feet. "What are we waiting for?" he cried, and he rushed upon the Ring with his axe swinging.

Boromir kept his face blank and aloof, as he saw the axe come down upon the Ring, but within him, his heart quailed. It seemed, in that moment, entirely beautiful and desirable, and Boromir had to fight the desire to snatch it from beneath the falling blade. But in the next instant, the axe burst asunder, the dwarf was hurled back onto the flagstones, and the Ring still lay, untouched, in all its beauty. Boromir breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

Elrond spoke again, in his most solemn manner. "The ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess. The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came." In the sudden, stunned silence, Boromir almost laughed. "One of you must do this."

Were they all insane? Had Elrond Half-Elven, wisest of the Wise, taken leave of his senses? Boromir could not believe what he was hearing or let it go unchallenged.

"One does not simply walk into Mordor," he said. "Its black gates are guarded by more than orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the great eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. It is folly! Not with ten thousand men could you do this."

Legolas was on his feet again, full of righteous indignation. "Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The ring must be destroyed!"

"And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?!" the dwarf growled.

"And if we fail, what then?! What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?!" Boromir shouted. He cared naught for the ancient quarrel between elves and dwarves. He cared only for the harsh realities of war and the fate of his people. These fools were gambling with the survival of Gondor!

The argument exploded around him, sweeping Boromir up in its passion. He felt his blood heat and his face flush with anger, while the subtle, whispered chant played in his head, and the tendrils of a familiar shadow crept coldly about him again. He saw himself shouting at Mithrandir, his hand reaching for a sword that was not there, as his temper slipped farther and farther out of his control. He saw it, but he could not stop it.

Then, into the frenzy of shouts and threats and rage, came a small, clear voice, calling, "I will take it!"

The entire company fell silent and turned, as one, to stare at the halfling. Frodo stood among them, absurdly small and frightened, staring up at them with his huge, haunted eyes.

"I will take the ring to Mordor. Though... I do not know the way."

Boromir did not understand what happened next, but he felt it in the very air about him, and in himself. The anger fled. The whispers died. The group, so hostile and fragmented just a moment before, drew together in support of this small creature and his enormous courage. And it was decided. With those few words on the lips of the halfling, it was decided. The Ring was going to Mordor.

Mithrandir stepped up to Frodo. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear."

Then Aragorn was kneeling before him, pledging, "If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will. You have my sword."

The elf came next. "And you have my bow."

And the dwarf. "And my axe!"

Boromir hesitated for only a moment, feeling the weight of his own doubts and fears within him, then he surrendered to the inevitable. Surrendered to his duty. "You carry the fate of us all, little one," he said, softly. Then, more loudly, so all the gathered company could hear his pledge, "If this is indeed the will of the council, then Gondor will see it done."

A sudden crashing in the shrubbery interrupted the solemn ceremony, and a second halfling tumbled into the center of the group, gasping, "Mr. Frodo's not goin’ anywhere without me!"

Laughter greeted his arrival, releasing the pent-up tension in them all. Before Boromir had quite sorted out who this new arrival was and what he thought he was doing at the council, two more halflings had charged in on them, demanding to be included in the company. With their boisterous entrance, the high council dissolved into low farce, and Boromir listened to their banter with a smile twitching his lips. He waited for Elrond or Mithrandir to send the little ones about their business, and part of him was sorry for the necessity. But to his amazement, when the halflings ranged themselves with the rest of the company, Elrond looked upon them with evident approval.

"Nine companions..." the elf lord mused. "So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!"

The smallest of the halflings piped in, "Great! Where are we going?"

Boromir smothered a groan. Charming the halflings undoubtedly were, but the seasoned warrior could not help wondering what kind of trouble they were inviting, by bringing these two imps along for the ride.

"Boromir!"

He halted in obedience to the call but did not turn until the approaching footsteps came to a stop behind him. There was silence, broken only by the other man's hurried breathing. Then the soft voice spoke again, evenly.

"I need a word with you."

Boromir turned to meet Aragorn's eyes, but once again, the Ranger's gaze wavered, sliding away from his. Boromir felt his own face tighten with scorn. What was this man - this would-be king - afraid of? Not of his disapproval, certainly. Aragorn was his liege lord, not his body servant, and had no need of his approval. Of his temper? Of his sword? The idea was absurd. Boromir knew a trained fighter when he saw one, and he did not doubt for a moment that Aragorn could meet him in battle on equal footing. So why did Isildur's Heir drop his eyes before the son of a Steward?

As if he had heard Boromir's thoughts, Aragorn drew himself up and raised his eyes again. This time, when their gazes locked, there was no retreat on either side. The very air seemed afire with the clash of pride and will between them.

"There are things we must resolve," Aragorn said, in a low, measured tone, "before we undertake this quest."

'Great,' Boromir thought, sourly, 'another quest. Why did he have to remind me?' His arm promptly began to ache.

Aragorn went on, "We face a long and dangerous journey. Everything depends on the strength of the Fellowship, on our ability to work and fight together."

Boromir stiffened haughtily. "I vowed to serve the Fellowship, in the name of Gondor, and to walk even into the great Shadow at your side. Do you doubt my good faith?"

Aragorn brushed away both his protest and his anger with a curt wave of his hand. "I do not doubt your faith, Boromir. What I doubt is our ability - yours and mine - to serve the Fellowship and the ringbearer as we must, if we cannot accept each other as companions."

"It is not your companionship I have trouble accepting."

"I am not your king, yet, son of Denethor, but I am your better by blood and your equal in arms." As Aragorn spoke, he drew himself up, his face growing stern and his voice taking on a commanding edge. "I do not ask you to bow to me, only to fight beside me, against our common foe, for the salvation of us all. Do not think that Gondor stands alone in this darkest hour, or that Gondor's Captain, alone, can stem the tide of evil. You are but one man, Boromir. One man, who has already felt the shadow of the Enemy upon him and tasted despair. Alone, you will fall. But if you join your sword with mine and your fate with that of the Fellowship, then you are no longer one man, alone, and between us, we may yet drive the Shadow from Middle-earth."

Boromir stared at the man before him, but the vision that filled his eyes and heart was of a figure crowned and robed in moonlight, the seven stars of Elendil burning upon his helm. He hid his amazement behind a hard, unyielding face, but the new flame of hope that leapt inside him would not be quenched. He had seen Aragorn, son of Arathorn unveil his might, and for a brief moment, he had believed that he looked upon a king.

In the silence, Aragorn seemed to diminish into Strider once again, as he let fall the cloak that hid his majesty from view. But Boromir had seen it, and he would not soon forget. It kindled a new respect for the other man in him and the first, reluctant stirrings of awe.

His thoughts still carefully masked, Boromir spoke into the charged silence. "Brothers in arms?"

"That is all I ask of you."

"And when we come to Minas Tirith?"

"I cannot see that far ahead. Too many weary leagues lie between the White City and the Black Land where we are bound. But I tell you this, Boromir. If ever I do claim that city's throne, it will only be after I have earned it - in your eyes and the eyes of every man in Gondor. I will be satisfied with nothing less."

Boromir nodded, and his face relaxed into something approaching a smile.

Aragorn saw his unbending, and he held out his right hand. "Brothers in arms."

Boromir gripped Aragorn's forearm and felt the other man's fingers close firmly around his in a gesture of comradeship. They held the clasp for a moment, their eyes meeting in silent, guarded understanding. Then Aragorn stepped closer, without releasing Boromir's arm, and spoke in his ear, his voice a low murmur, taut with emotion.

"And yes, Boromir, you read me aright. I have doubts - about my birthright, about my fitness to wear a crown, about a great many things - but they are my own, for me to conquer. They do not sway me from my duty. And they do not make me any less a man."

He gave Boromir's arm a swift squeeze, then stepped back and released him. Boromir eyed him in mingled wonder and unease, while unconsciously rubbing his arm where Aragorn's fingers had bitten into his half-healed wounds. Aragorn caught his movement and took a hasty step toward him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot your injury."

Boromir shrugged and gave him a wry smile. "So did I. It's nothing."

"How is your sword arm?"

Boromir lifted his right hand and tightened it into a fist, feeling the torn muscles burn as they moved and the flesh pull against raw scars. It hurt, but it worked. "Fit for cleaving orc necks."

"Good," Aragorn retorted, "you'll need it."

The solemnity of the moment was abruptly shattered, as two halflings came charging out of the house and up to Aragorn, hailing him with loud delight. Boromir was forced to jump backwards to avoid being trampled by their large, hairy feet. He recognized them as the same pair that had so unceremoniously barged into the council and demanded to join the Company, and he felt the same uninvited smile lighten his face at the sight of them.

The smaller of the two fairly danced with excitement, as he demanded, "Is it true, Strider? Are you really the King of Gondor?"

Aragorn maintained his dignity in the face of this assault. His voice was grave and calm, as he answered, "Yes, Pippin, I'm afraid it is true." He glanced at Boromir to gauge his reaction and seemed reassured by Boromir's evident amusement.

"We missed that part of the council. Merry was having second breakfast. But Sam told us all about it! Are we going to Gondor, when we've finished at that fiery mountain of Gandalf's? I'd like to see you on your throne..."

"Peace," Aragorn said, his low voice cutting off Pippin's artless chatter.

Pippin looked a bit daunted, but he revived quickly and turned to the other halfling. "I told you it was true! That's a pouch of your best pipeweed, you owe me, Merry Brandybuck!"

The one called Merry ignored him. Lifting keen, curious eyes to Boromir's face, Merry said, "I saw you at the council, didn't I? You're coming with us to Mordor?"

Boromir bowed polite acknowledgement. "I am." Shooting a slightly taunting glance at Pippin, he added, "Someone has to safeguard the Company. I do not aspire to Master Pippin's intelligence, but my sword is at your command."

Pippin blushed, then he tilted his chin defiantly and shot back, "I have a sword of my own!"

"Which you don't know how to use," Merry pointed out.

At that, even Aragorn smiled.

"That can be remedied," Boromir said.

Pippin had apparently decided to cover his nervousness in the presence of the tall, heavily-armed man with impudence, and he answered Boromir saucily. "Who are you to teach a Took anything?"

Aragorn spoke up, his voice soft but firm with authority. "This is Boromir of Gondor, a warrior of great renown and my brother in arms. You would do well to show him more respect, Peregrine Took."

Pippin squinted up at Boromir, his face alight with mischief. "Well, he's big enough, anyway. I suppose he can guard my back. But don't think I'm afraid of that great sword of yours, Master Warrior."

"Why should you be? My sword is meant for the necks of orcs, not of impertinent halflings."

Merry sighed audibly and said, in a loud aside to Aragorn, "Too bad. I thought we'd finally found someone who could keep Pip quiet."

Aragorn chuckled. "Enough. We have much to do, before we leave Rivendell."

Pippin screwed his face up in a grimace of discontent. "Humph. I say we go now. The sooner we get moving, the sooner we'll be done with the whole thing."

"Not 'til after tea," Merry objected.

Boromir laughed. "I believe Pippin has the right idea. It is easier to face evils when you walk straight at them."

Pippin gave a yelp of alarm. "Who said anything about facing evils? I just want to get rid of Frodo's ring and get home in time for supper. And speaking of supper..."

In the same noisy, abrupt manner as they had arrived, the halflings departed in search of a meal. Boromir watched them disappear through an arched doorway, a smile lingering on his lips, but a slight frown creasing his brow. Aragorn stirred, drawing his eyes away from the empty doorway to gaze at the Ranger.

"Do they understand what lies ahead?"

"Do any of us?" Aragorn shook his head, smiling faintly. "To them, the Black Land is only a distant rumor of evil, but those two halflings have stood against the Nazgûl and held their ground."

Boromir's eyes flew back to the archway through which the halflings had gone, his brows raised in wonder. "Those little ones?"

"Greatness comes in many sizes, Boromir."

"Aye, so it does." He stared through the archway, his face distant, as he remembered the halflings' laughter, their impudent courage, and their blithe acceptance of any peril on behalf of their friend. "So it does."

He smiled again, with real warmth. Perhaps this quest would not be as grim as the last, with such companions to lighten his heart and speed his steps. Perhaps Aragorn had a point about the Fellowship. Boromir of Gondor was suddenly very grateful that he was no longer one man, alone.


	8. Epilogue: The Hands of a King...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir travels from Minas Tirith to Rivendell, to solve the mystery of the dream riddle. The story takes place on the road and in Rivendell itself. It is a combination of the book and movie universes.

He lay among the scattered dead, his life bleeding into the ground beneath him, his eyes fixed sightlessly upon the sky above his head. Silence cloaked him. Pain filled him, pain in so many layers that it reached to his very soul and tortured him as no arrow could. The pain of wounds and approaching death were there, pitiless and cruel, but they paled before the agony of mind and heart.

He had reached the end of his long road, he knew, and in the suffering of failure and loss, he welcomed it. Only in the final darkness could he hope to blot out the faces of the halflings... of his friends, as the foul orcs dragged them, screaming, away from him. He had failed them, and now he would die, like the dozens of orcs sprawled about him, in blood and filth and pointless suffering. So fell Gondor's proudest son.

A figure loomed suddenly above him, blotting out his view of the peaceful sky. He blinked to clear his sight, and saw Aragorn bending over him. Sorrow welled up in him afresh, but even with his brother in arms beside him, he could not allow for hope. Hope was gone, as were the halflings and his honor and his life.

He drew in a ragged breath that sent pain lancing through him, and whispered, "They took the little ones."

"Be still," Aragorn murmured.

"Frodo... Where is Frodo?"

"I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the ring from him."

"The ring is beyond our reach now."

The words came easily to his bloodied lips, words that humbled his pride and laid bare the grief in his heart. "Forgive me, I did not see it. I have failed you all."

"No, Boromir, you fought bravely! You have kept your honor."

Aragorn laid a hand on the arrow that pierced his breast, but Boromir halted his movement with a whispered, "Leave it! It is over." He looked up into Aragorn's eyes - those eyes that spoke so eloquently of age and wisdom and sorrow. They gazed at him now through a sheen of tears, and Boromir felt answering tears gather in his own, as he wept for the death of hope. "The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness… and my city to ruin."

"I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you I will not let the white city fall, nor our people fail!"

"Our people?" He gazed in wonder at the kingly face and repeated, "Our people."

A smile, twisted by pain but yet a smile, touched his lips, and he knew that even now he had found mercy. He would never see his home again, but Gondor would have her king. What grief was there in this? His hand reached for the sword that he knew lay nearby, needing to feel the cold strength of his weapon once more. He was a soldier of Gondor, Captain-General of her armies, and he would die with his blade in his hand as befit a soldier.

Aragorn placed the sword in his hand, and Boromir pulled it to his breast, clasping it with all his remaining strength. Then he lifted his eyes to Aragorn's face once more, content to take the image of his king into death with him. Aragorn leaned closer and rested his hand against Boromir's face. At the touch of his fingers, Boromir knew that he had found more than mercy. He had found forgiveness.

With the last of his breath, he whispered, "I would have followed you my brother... my captain... my king."

Boromir did not feel his brother's farewell kiss upon his brow or hear him murmur, "Be at peace, son of Gondor."

He had already found his peace.

_**Finis** _


End file.
